Seeking the Rose
by Wood Fawne
Summary: Gwynayne, the bastard child to the king of Wayrest is sent to study at the College of Winterhold to escape a deadly court plot. Guarded by a Rose Knight, she makes her way across Skyrim, only to become entangled with the rebel uprising and return of the dragons. (Includes both original characters and those from the game.)
1. Chapter One - The Deluge

**Author's Note:** So this story was started quite a while back, but I simply was too busy to continue working on it at the time. I really enjoy the characters (some that were yet to be originally published), and so I decided to try and actually bother finishing the darn thing. The chapters I originally published will be re-written to better suit the new chapters (mostly aesthetic changes or additions), and I'll just replace the old chapters as I go. For now, just this first chapter has been rewritten (I'll add a quick little "author's note" before each chapter that has been re-written). I hope you enjoy the story! Feel free to comment and review, I'd love to hear what you think, for constructive criticism is always helpful and it gives me motivation to continue. I'd also like to post some illustrations of the main characters, maybe if the story collects 25-50 or so followers, I'll go about making that happen, they're very fun to draw.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The Deluge**

"I insist we turn west at once, my lady. I believe you and your sightseeing venture have been indulged long enough. We will not be able to cross."

The swollen river convulsed, heaving and lurching in erratic pulses as the turbulent waters beat against the bank. Wind and rain alike were ever willing partners that pulled and parted the waterway with ease, sending waves of muddy froth crashing against the bank, claiming what little shoreline remained. A faint stench of decay and upturned sediment had begun to choke the air as the waters clawed at the twisted growth that lined the shores, tearing sodden ground into its depths with every ebb. Raw earth and clay now lined the banks, fresh and frail roots exposed as the harsh waters pulled all that grew along its edges into the turning swell. Branches and deadwood were mercilessly pulled along the current, violently bobbing along, crushed and forced against the rocks, scraping further more of the bank into the river.

Once shallow crystal waters, the bloated river now turned with debris and upturned mud, black and opaque, clouded and thick, just as the skies above. The rains, first a fine soft mist cooled by the winter chill had begun to coat the travelers only an hour prior, the distant and still faint cracks of thunder far off in the distance over yet untraveled land, but it now fell from the sky in a torrent, assaulting and harsh, turning the ground to bog and muck.

The rushing waters and pelting rain had drowned out the Rose Knight's entreaty to his young charge, and she remained motionless at the river's edge, seemingly indifferent to the violent storm overhead and the grasping waves of the water below. Her fine cloak, lined with thick fur and embroidered with silk thread, shed rainwater in thick sheets, drenched and utterly seeping. But still the winds twisted the soaked cloth about her small frame, billowing and folding upon itself in the harsh and relentless gale that stirred the waters below and brought down weakened branches from the forest above, the resulting cacophony competing with nearing claps of thunder.

"We are soaked through and there is no bridge in sight," the young knight again called out to his charge, "We perhaps have but an hour of what dismal light there is, I insist we turn back at once to find lodgings."

She gave no response, instead remaining ever fixated on the turning waters. Adjusting the hood of his crimson mantle, he stepped out from the tree line and into the downpour, grimacing as his feet sunk further into the boggy undergrowth, squelching water in awkward pulses as he trod forth. Water had long since flooded his boots and his patience was wearing thin.

Their map long ago lost, he knew only that they had been stumbling through the wilds in the outer territory of the Falkreath Hold, with only a squalid little inn nearly half a day's trek to the west from whence they had spent the previous night to serve as any meaningful indication of their location. For all their wanderings in the mist and pines that claimed the region, they had only seen a deteriorating tower guarded by a handful of hapless bandits, a distressingly common sight they were coming to understand as they traveled further into the foreign, frost covered land. The constant degree of vigilance and caution required to trek through the mismanaged holds was growing increasingly exhausting, and given his lady's propensity to fulfill her naïve curiosity for sightseeing, stumbling unawares upon a group of bandits and undesirables was a near constant threat, plaguing the young knight with constant stress. For hours, they traveled in hopeless circles, disorientated from unintelligible directions given by the rube managing the simple establishment. They had sought out the single road that ran between the border of Falkreath and Cyrodiil, the only manageable means of traversing the territory held by the southernmost holds, whilst hoping to maneuver around what difficult terrain and beast ridden locales they could, a tiring task even in the previously fair weather.

Though his charge had taken the egregious series of setbacks in uncharacteristic stride, nonchalance even, the Rose Knight was only growing further perturbed by the additional hindrances beset upon them, longing to simply locate suitable lodgings. He grimaced at the thought of returning to the hovel and its incompetent proprietor, but with Falkreath, the only patch of humanity in the region resembling a degree of worthwhile civility out of their reach, he resigned himself, taking the last few strides to close the distance between he and his charge.

"Please, my lady," he started as he came to her side, "we must – "

A small hand shot out from underneath the thick crimson cloak, coming to rest poised just above his lips.

"Hush!" the young woman demanded, snapping her head to the side to show brows furled and lips pursed under her sopping fur trimmed hood, clearly displeased. "You're being insipid, Mordistair. And what's more, you've broken my concentration!"

With an exasperated sigh, she placed her hands on her hips and stared intently at the river, its waters creeping and swelling ever closer to the bank shore she stood upon. The Rose Knight scowled as he turned to glance at the darkening sky, charcoal grey and deep slate blue with ever building storm clouds. What little light remained from the evening sun was nearly consumed by the thunderous clouds above.

"The light is fading quickly, as is my patience," he warned, "We are returning west at once, now come away from the edge before this whole bank is consumed."

"The weather sours your mood, it is most unbecoming," the young woman dismissed with an upturned nose, "and I refuse to concern myself with your incessant fretting."

Pausing only a moment for a sudden fervent chuckle she turned her attention once again to the river and with dramatic enthusiasm she threw back her cloak, raising her arms with a look of euphoria in her eyes. Her chuckle turned into a devious cackle, and with joy she proclaimed to her knight, as if to assuage his concerns, "But soon we shall be gazing upon the mead halls and sweet rolls of Whiterun!"

With pale porcelain palms spread wide before her, she shot forth a thick stream of ice into the turning waters. Tendrils immediately spread and crackled across the pulsing waves, colliding with the thrashing waters as they reached and stretched for the far bank. With another raucous laugh, the ice emerged thicker and spread haphazardly across the riverside. A solid frozen mass inelegantly connected the banks in only a matter of moments and the young woman beamed as tendrils further spread and curled upon themselves to grasp for the opposite shore.

"My lady, stop!" the knight cried out, taken aback by his charge's sudden actions, arms instinctively raised as he questioned whether to use force, "this is foolishness!"

She only laughed in wild excitement, grinning from ear to ear as she became consumed by the ecstasy her power brought. The ice continued to fight against the river and slowly spread in thicker and thicker streams, sending the murky water crashing in every direction as it built behind the emerging bridge. Shards of ice churned in the water along with the accumulating debris. Logs and thick mud slammed against the ice and bank, desperate to push past the barrier as the river quickly swelled.

"No more!" the knight commanded as he reached for the arms of his charge, finally overwhelmed with a sense of impending danger. As he turned on his heel to strive forth the ground beneath him shuddered. For a sickening moment the bank titled then abruptly plunged into the river, pulling him down into the frothy swell of branches and mud.

It only took a moment for her guardian's body to disappear beneath the turning debris that coated the surface and the young woman watched helplessly, her face aghast with shock and alarm as the river swallowed him whole.

"Mordistair!"

As disbelief wracked her mind, dissolving her focus, her arms fell to her sides, limp, and the spell dissipated. No longer buttressed by a continuous stream of ice, the frost bridge cracked, the edges shattering, spraying thin shards and crystals into the air. The swollen waters immediately surged to push past the emerging fissures, and with a sudden reverberating crack, the river shot through the weakest point. Barely a moment passed before the bridge collapsed upon itself entirely, succumbing to the ravenous pull of the river and with a violent wrench, the ground beneath the girl's feet was sucked into the sudden rush.

As she screamed her mouth filled with the muddy and rotten water. Weighed down by her cloak, she was eagerly pulled into the depths of the twisting river, unable to see the oncoming barrage in the blackened waters that now enveloped her.

She had no control over her small frame, and it was twisted and turned about along the rocky riverbed. Again and again her struggling arms and legs careened into the rocks and thick, fallen branches that were tossed about as she. Terrified she would be knocked unconscious, she fought in vain to curl upon herself and cover her exposed head. Eyes closed tight from fear, she suddenly gasped as her body was slammed against what she could only assume was one of the many fallen logs cluttering the river. Silt water rushed to fill her lungs and her body began to seize, desperate for breath. Clawing for the surface, her hands became entwined in algae and the riverside growth that had been pulled in with her. Her body shuddered and she continued to choke, taking in more water and silt that coated her mouth and throat. Her lungs burning and convulsing, she thrashed her head from side to side, desperately trying to make what movements she could to reach the surface, consumed with the overwhelming fear that accompanied the familiar sensation of drowning. Amidst her panicked thrashing her head struck against a riverside boulder as her body was carried in a sudden swell against the bank. As back spots took over her vision and she began to lose consciousness, she felt her body encircled in an inexplicable embrace before a spreading weightlessness finally consumed her.

* * *

Mordistair's eyes grew wide with shock as he felt the ground loosen beneath him. He saw his charge's smile fade, twisting into a horrified scream and suddenly his body was engulfed in mud and rushing water. He immediately felt the anchoring pull of his armor and thick cloak and his back dragged along the bottom of the riverbed as he was thrust into the crashing, fitful undertows. Trying to stay clearheaded, he sought out the barely visible light above in his attempts to center himself amidst the heaving currents. Kicking, he struggled to the surface, clawing his way through the twigs and debris. As he strained his head above the rising waters, he desperately sucked in a quick, unsatisfying gasp of air before a crashing wave of shattered ice forced him under. Feeling his strength diminish under the relentless force of the river, he made one last attempt to break through the surface. Just barely managing to catch a faint glimpse of the outline of a fallen log, he desperately grasped for the few submerged branches and clung onto the rotting bark with his little remaining strength. His lips parted, groaning in agony as his muscles shuddered, weighed down intolerably by his armor and soaked cloak, and he heaved himself out of the river, coughing up the muddy water and gasping for breath. His fingers dug deep into the decaying wood as he swung his legs out of the river and straddled the log. He turned his head to face the now shattered ice bridge, only a few snaking tendrils still trailing in faint patchwork fashion along the far bank, and panicked as he saw his charge nowhere in sight. Only raw earth and mangled roots remained where she had stood, a sizeable chunk of bankside clearly torn asunder.

"Lady Gwynayne!" he cried out desperately, pushing his torso up off the log. His eyes darted wildly from one bank to the next, scouring the turbulent waters for any sign of the girl. With frantic breaths, he looked along the length of the log he straddled and caught a glimpse of small, pale fingers brushing lifelessly against the surface, only just visible through twisted clumps of riverside weeds. Without hesitation he flung himself into the river. Though the water was sullied with turning mud and uprooted riverside growth he spotted the quickly disappearing wisps of his charge's white hair suspended in the water before him. His strength exhausted, he tried merely to steady his course towards the girl as the river pulled him along. As the faint outline of her body came into sight, he dove forward, pushing against the rocky riverbed and grabbed hold of her small, limp body. Pulling her close, he strained to lift her head above water, despairing at the vast distance between them and the surface as he struggled against the excessive weight of another cloaked body. His muscles and lungs screamed in protest for competing sensations of burgeoning lethargy, of utter exhaustion, and unyielding instinctual desperation consumed him. Yet as the river coursed through a tight bend, forcing the currents into a frenzy he could only manage to hold her close, and with growing terror realized they were at the mercy of the river.

The waters were nearly black with loam now, and what little light had managed to pierce the surface had disappeared, whether due to evening's closure or thickening storm clouds the knight did not know. Rotting cattail grasses and thick river weeds were continuously ensnaring themselves onto his armor, only further dragging him and his charge towards the riverbed. His eyes were burning as they searched for a means of salvation, a foggy form in the waters he could cling to, and as he grit his teeth, forcing himself not to breathe, he caught sight of a large riverside boulder. He awkwardly turned his back in an attempt to brace himself, shielding Gwynayne from the force of the sudden impact and he shuddered in pain as his body was brutally careened into the stone. Though he could not see such detail, he quickly realized the submerged rock side was covered in slick river moss and algae as his desperate grasps repeatedly slipped along the surface. Knowing his lungs were about to give way, he dug his feet along the riverbed and clawed at the boulder. Just as his vision began to blur, his fingers caught on a small divot in the stone, his muscles now burning, roaring in protest as the river fought to pull him further along. With a heave he clutched Gwynayne to his chest and finding a footfall, scaled up the boulder until finally their heads broke the surface.

Gasping for breath, choking up what grit and muddy water had filled his mouth and lungs, the knight sought out a stronger foothold and struggled to pull both he and his charge further up the boulder and out of the river. It wasn't until he collapsed against her body that he noticed she made no movements and her chest lay still.

"My lady?" He managed to gasp in between ragged breathes.

Her skin was nearly as white as her hair and her rosebud lips, normally so plump and pink, were pale and lifeless. Reeds and grass entwined her body and she was drenched in mud and filth. Again he gasped with desperation, "Lady Gwynayne?" and strained to lift himself off her side.

A familiar sense of dread arose from deep within the knight, the young girl's prostrate and pale body, soaked and lifeless, could not help but remind him of distant memories of a similarly frozen night, and the sickening panic within him only grew.

The rain continued to pelt the two as the river swelled, the ever rising waters creeping up the side of the boulder, pulling at their legs. Again Mordistair attempted to drag both he and his charge further up the boulder in hopes of reaching the bank, a tangled mess of roots only just above their heads. Slipping on the slick coating of algae he nearly slid off the rock side, and the two lurched further down into the water.

Growing ever paler and still without breath, Gwynayne's head lolled to the side as she slid alongside the knight back into the rushing waters. Realizing he had little time, Mordistair used what strength he could muster to keep them from falling any further back into the river. With trembling hands he parted the girl's lips and weakly gave what breath he had to her. Pulling away he coughed and gasped for air. Again and again he brought his lips to hers as he tried to revive her, giving what fresh air he could. Suddenly he felt her body seize and pulled away as she began to cough up river water. Turning her on her side, he gripped her arm to keep her from falling off the boulder as she finished expelling the seemingly endless stream of gray water. With a small groan between hurried breaths, she fell back onto the rock side and dully stared into the distant sky above, letting the rain beat against her face.

"Lady Gwynayne?" Mordistair pleaded, "Can you hear me?"

Still faintly panting, she closed her eyes and weakly nodded her head. Exhausted, her body went limp against his.

Suddenly, a distant crash reverberated through the rocks and tree line as something fell into the turning waters upriver, and the young knight gripped the rock in terror as he saw the last of the ice encrusted bank being ripped into the grasp of the convulsing river. The wedge of frozen earth hurtled down the river, slamming against the shoreline, pulling along logs and riverside debris in its wake.

With mere moments to act, the knight used what small amount of strength his fresh panic offered to him and heaved the body of his charge across his back, frantically clawing his way up the boulder, desperately reaching out to grasp just one of the overhanging roots. As he pulled his body off the rock side to lunge for the roots, the first sheets of ice shattered against the boulder. Muscles seizing, he roared with pain as he thrust Gwynayne off his back onto the nest of roots above them, only capable of hoping she would not fall back into the river. The thrust disrupted his footing on the slick stone and he clumsily lunged for the roots himself, knowing a fall at this point would result in his death. As the first of the disrupting waves from the crashing frozen bankside hit, he pulled himself aground next to his young charge, his neck straining from the pull of his drenched cloak that flopped lazily in the wind.

The frozen bankside slammed against the boulder they had only just clung to, spraying the air with shards of ice. Raising a forearm to his face to shield himself, Mordistair watched as the remaining ice and bankside continued down the river, further disintegrating as it turned a distant bend.

With the ordeal seemingly over, the Rose Knight collapsed onto his forearms, squeezing fresh mud and grass in his leather clad hands, concentrating on simply breathing. Never had his armor nor sword nor crest adorned cloak, the marks of his station and duty, normally sources of immense pride felt like such immense burdens, and yet they weighed heavily on his quivering form, chilled, beaten, bruised, and strained to the point of imminent collapse.

His sight was beginning to blur and a low, dull ringing plagued his ears, but they pricked at the sound of shuffling undergrowth and snapping twigs and his head snapped forward toward the tree line before him, alert and focused instincts called forth.

Imagining every manner of beast, the knight thrust himself in front of his unmoving charge and drew his blade limply at his side, swaying as he grew faint. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his knees and leveled his sword towards the trees, still panting for breath, realizing he could pose no threat until he rose to his feet.

Slowly, a handful of men, cloaked in furs and blue sashes broke through the tree line. Coming to a halt in front of the young knight, they reached for their swords, startled at the sight of the drenched and wild eyed warrior.

Mordistair's fingers dug deep into the boggy mud as he struggled to stay upright. His lungs still ached for air and his body shuddered as he fought to catch his breath. Unable to keep both his body and sword aloft, his arms shaking as they grew ever weaker, he started lowering to ground, all the while looking with fierce determination toward the men staring him down, giving what warning he could. His eyes met with those of the foremost soldier and for a moment the two regarded one another. Catching a glimpse of the young girl behind him, the soldier nodded to his fellow men and released the hilt of his sword.

"Let's escort these two back to the camp."

* * *

Mordistair's vision started to fade, a hazy fog thickening and dissipating in weak pulses before his eyes, blurring the boot trampled ground before him. His head hung limply onto his chest, bobbing as it rose and fell with short, stifled breaths. Though the storm clouds had begun to dissipate with the same abruptness in which they arrived, with only stranglers remaining to dispense a fine drizzling mist onto the regiment, the skies continued to grow ever darker as evening gave way to night. The forest was quickly cloaked with impenetrable shadows, kept at bay only by the weak torches of the surrounding soldiers. Though the seeping darkness made obvious the passage of time, the young Rose Knight could not recall how long he had been trudging alongside the Nordic warriors, for he measured the passing moments by the steady, throbbing pulse in his ears, the dull beat a continuous distraction from the foreign banter that surrounded him. He could no longer feel his limbs, neither his legs as they trudged along the decaying forest path, nor his arms as they clung to Gwynayne, carried on his back. The growing chill of the evening air met with his building body heat, fresh sweat mixed with the now trickling rainfall that showered his face, and the opposing forces resulted in further lack of sensation, just increasing, aching discomfort. Swaying, he stumbled and fell against one of the many soldiers who had found him and his charge earlier in the evening.

"Eh! Perhaps now you'll stop this foolishness, boy!" the soldier chided as the knight righted himself, "Let's have her here."

The gruff Nord began to reach for the girl in an attempt to relieve the struggling knight, but Mordistair only sidestepped the soldier's advances and grunted as he readjusted his grip on his charge. Curled over, pausing for a breath, he stared at the ground beneath him, trying to steady himself.

"She…she is…my…responsibility," he murmured determinedly between pants. Without waiting for a reply, he started again, following the remaining soldiers.

"Oafish lad…" the soldier muttered as he began off after him. The soldier next to him chuckled and clapped a hand on his friend's fur and mail covered back.

"Ah, let the boy keep his pride! He can collapse soon enough."

The sopping Nord spoke true, and not more than a quarter hour had passed before the overgrown trail opened into a clearing in the darkened woods, lit only by a patchwork of small fires. The soldiers surrounding the Rose Knight began to disperse as they headed to various campsites, eager to claim their seats by the fires and indulge in what little mead and food was available. The soldier who seemed to lead the small regiment parted for one of the few tents on the outskirts of the clearing, muttering to those near him to lead the boy to a fire. Mordistair eagerly lifted his head as the wafting smell of pine smoke and roasting meat consumed him and using the last of his strength, took long strides to close the gap between himself and comfort. It wasn't until the smoke burned the back of his throat and wafted eagerly across his salivating tongue, having been subtly flavored with tantalizing hints of roasted meat drippings, that he realized just how desperately hungry he had become, for the ache in his despairing limbs and lungs had claimed what little focus he had left to spare. The sight of spitted meat, of the fat coating the Nords lips as they picked through their freshly charred suppers, was simply an additional torment for the knight, and the emptiness in his stomach was only made more palpable.

He collapsed at the edge of smallest fire, with just barely space enough for his charge, much less himself, and his knees sunk eagerly into the sodden ground. Though exhausted to the point of nearing delirium he tenderly slipped Gwynayne off his back and cradled her in his arm against his breastplate, ripping the crimson cloak from his armor, the once finely stitched rose crest now covered in mud. He threw it to the ground, quickly smoothing the creases and folds, then gently lay his charge atop it, shifting her own cloak to cover her from the chilling night air. She stirred from the transition, mumbling something inaudible in her sleep. In what simple gesture he could attempt to soothe her, he softly brushed the few stray hairs aside that clung to her cheeks and lips. Soldiers that surrounded the fire watched in silence as he brought a knee to his chest and rested his head, eyes closed, at long last able to catch his breath.

Many throughout the camp could not help but stare at the young knight and his lady, decorated in relative finery as they were. Though disheveled and thoroughly soiled, the Rose Knight's armor and attire emanated rank and sophistication, and the foreign design easily stood out amidst the ramshackle appearance of the fur swaddled soldiers. He was clad in a finely crafted ebony breastplate, the attention to artistic detail and ostentatious flourish clear signs of its Breton origins, where superior blacksmithing techniques resulted in armaments of nearly sculptural quality. The breastplate, plackart, and pauldrons were soft and smooth, following closely the curvature of his natural form, adorned with silver edging and decorated with sculpted black and crimson roses. It shone in the light of the fire, gleaming after being polished by the recent downpour. Though stained with mud and the filth of the river, his clothing, a finally crafted white tunic and cravat, with leather gloves and tailored black pants stood in stark contrast to the matted fur and well-worn chain and tunics of the soldiers sharing the fire. Their leather armaments showed obvious wear and many of their helmets and gauntlets were dull and beaten in appearance. Undoubtedly Breton, with his small frame, pale complexion, sleek, bister colored hair and dark eyes, he looked out of place amidst the hulking, muscular builds, messy blonde hair and pale eyes of the Nordic soldiers that surrounded him.

An uncomfortable silence hung over the camp as the soldiers continued to take in the pair of Bretons who had so suddenly been thrust upon them. Few began to mutter of the young, unconscious girl and her evident elfish features. Those close enough to take note of her light hair, white as the frost and snow that adorned their own country, pointed ears, and slight frame that were clear indicators of her muddled pedigree, began to share hushed slurs and glares, beginning chains of breathy speculations and rumors that spread from fire to fire, leaving fellow troops with only more concern. Though the young Rose Knight kept his eyes downcast, trying to recover his strength, he listened intently to the soft spoken discussion around him, growing ever more apprehensive about their arrival to the rebellion encampment.

He fingers itched, desperate to search through the folds of his tunic for the precious parchment he had borne even before his haphazard journey east with his lady had formally begun. Sealed with royal wax and cocooned in thin leather, he could only hope it had survived the deluge and consequential tussle through the river, and that it remained with him and was not but a soiled lump of pulp, the ink forever washed away. The young knight had received few orders as direct and ardent as his order to keep such parchment safe and secure with him and with a weary sigh, his eyes trailed to check upon the sleeping figure of his charge, the object of the only order of protection and safekeeping given in even more urgency than his scrap of royal parchment. Color had at long last begun to return to the young girl's face, induced by the warmth of the fire, and her sleep appeared to have settled peacefully. He smiled softly, further tucking her in with her cloak, allowing his fingers to brush lightly over her own as he adjusted the fabric.

Though the sight of his charge sleeping safely and soundly beside him gave him momentary comfort, his eyes could not help but wander and catch the sneering grimace of the Nord sitting beside her, a gruff man, older than his companions, gripping his tankard of ale tightly, his dirt stained fingers digging deeply into the grain of the wood. Such a glare was shared by those sitting around the fire, all watching with narrowed eyes while Mordistair had idly been tending to his charge, suspicious of the strangers upsetting their evening routine. The hostility was beginning to choke the very air, and Mordistair longed further more to simply take his lady in his arms and flee into the surrounding woods, hidden and protected by the thick shadows and moon-hidden night.

Even the most contemptuous and abominable of those in the high court, sirs and ladies, knights and officials alike, did not make Mordistair feel as small and vulnerable as he did kneeling in front of the fire, unable to utilize either the silver in his tongue or sword to defend against the rebellious Nords. He could only watch the crackling flames and puckering pine before him, allowing the faint warmth of the fire quell and soothe what mounting anxiety he had, what eagerness he fostered to speak to the encampment's yet unknown leader to obtain the freedom he had not yet lost.


	2. Chapter Two - A Den of Winter Bears

**Author's Note: **This chapter is officially updated, hurrah! It turned out much longer than I had originally anticipated, for various reasons, but it's finished at last. I hope new and old followers alike enjoy, feel free to leave comments to help me improve upon future chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**A Den of Winter Bears**

"We came across them unexpectedly, found them collapsed on the bank. It was apparent the poor souls were caught in the storm trying to cross the river. I thought it only right to bring them back to camp."

The soldier stood erect before his commander, firm in his decision, showing no hesitation in admitting his actions.

"And what do we know of these strangers?" his commander questioned, his voice deep and gruff and his Nord accent thick. He leaned over a simple wooden table, a map sprawled open with small regiment and battalion markers scattered across it, worn with age and repeated use. "You say they are Bretons? One of them with damn elfish blood?" He turned now to face his soldier, his face pulled tight and brows furled tight with growing indignation. "They will hold no sympathy for our cause, be they Forsworn or loyal to the Empire, or to the damn Thalmor for all we know."

The soldier bowed his head.

"With all due respect, my liege, I…" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully before continuing, "I do not believe we have reason to fear these two. The boy is a Rose Knight, an esteemed member of Wayrest's court, his ties could not possibly be with the Forsworn. His only intentions seem to be guarding the young girl, for what purpose…I admit I was unable to discern. But I am confident they act alone, with no ties to our enemies."

He hoped his tone was not perceived as especially persistent, for he was speaking from mere conjecture and selfish desire. He sought only to calm his Jarl to the point of reaching a rational conclusion as to the Bretons' fates and feared he was speaking perhaps too highly of the travelers. Though he was nearly certain a knight of the boy's caliber and rank would have nothing to do with the savages in the Reach, he truly knew nothing of their intentions.

"And what of this elf mongrel?"

"A Breton of some importance I can only assume. Her attire says as much, at least, not to speak of her apparent bodyguard. I was unable to speak with her, as she is unconscious."

"All Bretons fancy themselves important," Ulfric sneered, "Not enough titles to satisfy the lot."

For a moment the soldier was silent, as the Jarl returned to studying the map and regiment positions in front of him. His large form, cloaked in a bear hide blocked most of the light in the small tent, and cast an imposing presence even when turned away and otherwise occupied. The soldier stiffened and his eyes were cast downward in distress.

"Would you have them turned away or…held?"

"The boy still has his senses about him, yes?" the Jarl asked over his shoulder, "Bring him to me."

The soldier nodded, "At once, my Jarl," then turned to leave, tossing aside the still soaking tent flap.

"And confiscate his weapons until I make such a decision as to the threat he poses," the Jarl concluded, turning his attention back to the map.

The soldier continued into the clearing, eager to leave the cold shadows of the overhanging tree line. He made his way to the Rose Knight, still guarding the young lady at his side. From what little interaction he had with the boy he knew his Jarl's demands would be met with stubborn resistance. A knight of a faraway court, holding loyalty to one master would be certain to give intense opposition. Though he had stumbled across the boy as he was nearing delirium, weakened beyond suitable service as his position required, there had been a fierceness about the knight, a passion of sorts, beyond a mere instinctual drive for survival. Even now the boy remained by his charge's side, unwavering despite his obvious fatigue, he neither left her side for food or drink, nor permitted himself to sleep.

Making his way through the throng of fires and fellow soldiers shuffling about for the last scraps of food and mead, he pondered if all Rose Knights were as such, similar to their own Nordic housecarls, devotion and determination worn plainly on their sleeves. Though he had heard of the famous exploits of the most notable of Wayrest's royal knights, those fashioned most suitably for bedtime stories and fireside tales, he'd never found himself in the presence of one to compare the boy's demeanor, for he knew they tended to stay close within reach of their native High Rock, carrying out the king's orders within his realm. A member of any foreign court would be quite the rarity for a common Nord to come across in daily travel, and he realized the oddness of his run in with such figures. Perplexed, he questioned their means of travel.

"_Surely they should have been traveling in a lavish carriage of some sort, or at least have been in the possession of horses,"_ he thought to himself, recalling what few instances of Nordic nobility he had caught sight of, kept suitably from the common rubes that crossed their path.

Though entirely improper, given the situation, the soldier could not help but harbor a faint longing to speak with the knight further than the few tired grunts of thanks he had managed to receive as they traveled through the woods. Though the common, brutish banter shared between his comrades could easily prove entertaining for an evening, weeks had passed with little in the way of truly sophisticated conversation, beyond mere tactical maneuvers and rumors of court squabbling between the various Jarls. The exotic rarity found with foreigners, their nearly assured high-bred nature, left the Nord with desperate longing to engage with them, to hear their tales for the simple sake of his enjoyment, never mind what information he could bring to his Jarl. With a listless sigh, he hoped his Jarl would take pity on the young travelers, thus allowing him to perhaps share a few cordial words, perhaps even an exploit or two, and he came to a stop beside the resting lady and her knight.

"I will have to ask for your blade," he insisted, his hand held aloft to accept the ebony sword, sheathed at the Rose Knight's hip.

Taken slightly aback, surprised at the Nord's appearance as his senses still eluded him, Mordistair stared incredulously at the soldier before him for a moment before his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Slowly he rose to his feet, showing obvious signs of fatigue. He gripped the hilt of his sword and the small crimson tassel swayed with a jolt, discolored and frayed with age, the only ceremonial adornment he allowed on his sword.

"You understand I shall have to decline," he maintained, struggling to speak above a hoarse whisper.

"My Jarl would see you, but unarmed. Your blade will be returned. I insist that you will not be offered our continued hospitality should you refuse."

The soldier stood resolute. His etiquette and learned speech was unlike those exhibited by the uncivilized brutes that surrounded the knight, whom he was coming to further distrust as the evening waned to night. With little choice but to refuse and die, he gripped the hilt only tighter, agonizing over his lack of options. Studying the soldier's eyes, he believed to sense a degree of earnest integrity, and hoping the sincerity he saw would prove true, Mordistair scowled at his predicament and begrudgingly slipped the sheath from his belt. Faltering with a final display of grit teeth and clenched grip, he paused before placing his blade into the hands of the soldier, then kneeled to collect his charge.

"Ah! There is no need to disrupt the young lady," the soldier quickly pleaded in hushed tones, shaking his free hand at Mordistair's attempt, "she will come to no harm. She shall not be disturbed while you speak with my Jarl."

For a long moment, the young knight did not move, but did not further disturb his charge. The soldier could not help but wonder if the knight had fainted where he knelt, finally consumed by exhaustion, until at last he spoke in a strained, gruff whisper.

"Do I have your word?" was all the knight asked, now barely audible.

"My…word?"

"You ask me to abandon my charge," the knight expounded, lifting his head to stare with weary eyes upon the soldier, "Do I have your word she will come to no harm?"

He suddenly looked twice his age, tired and grim, as he waited for the soldier's response.

After pause, the soldier nodded, "You have my word."

Seemingly still unsatisfied, the knight glanced forlornly towards the young girl, tenderly smoothing a small crease of drying fabric that lay across her arm, before finally sighing with resignation. With a great amount of effort, Mordistair rose to his feet, gripping his knees for support before finally straightening, his very bones screaming for rest and comfort.

"I will see your Jarl," he muttered, resolute, with no choice before him.

Nodding with approval, the soldier turned to escort the young knight to his commander's tent. At ease among his fellow soldiers, eager to carry out the will of his Jarl, he did not seem to recognize the power he held over the young knight, for his demeanor was casual, as if he was leading an old acquaintance to his seat at supper. Recognizing no danger or ill will from his comrades, his easy manner stood in stark contrast to the withering, anxious knight that trailed him. With a last glance to his still sleeping charge, yet unaware of the monstrous cloak swathed bears that surrounded her frail form, Mordistair followed, unease setting in with every further step he took. Though he could not help but see a manner of decency about the regiment leader, his mind reeled with nearly overwhelming desire to face the consequences of returning to his lady's side, for it was the decency of the wild, rebellious Nordic bears he feared. He had no pact with those that surrounded his vulnerable charge, whom he was abandoning further with every step closer to the Jarl.

He could catch their questioning gazes and blatant contempt now, could spot the undoubted criminals and mongrels that padded the ranks, eager for food and shelter, for purpose and coin. Such evident disdain stirred the growing unease within him, and he was increasingly fraught with ensuing panic for his charge. Though a capable knight, his recent years of court life had best prepared him to parlay with quick words and defend with tireless machinations, to avoid sneers not sword blows and to repel vicious rumors rather than wild ravagers. His journey through Skyrim's wild border territory was beginning to illuminate for him just how quickly he would have to recall his earliest training in order to survive in the growing savagery of the decaying and languished Nordic lands. Biting his tongue, he chastised himself for allowing such a dangerous situation to culminate for he and his charge, allowing such an extravagant degree of gallivanting to occur under his watch, as if Skyrim was the marketplace of their native Wayrest. He had been too tolerant and catering to his lady's whims and wishes, too eager to see her made content, only for his folly to have them trapped deep within a den of winter bears.

* * *

"So tell me, what is a little Rose Knight is doing in my country?"

Ulfric stood with arms crossed, his imposing figure blocking the small amount of lantern light in the tent, cloaking both he and Mordistair in dark shadows. Even leaning against the worn wooden table that claimed the space, shoulders hunched, he towered over the young man in front of him, his girth alone made the knight appear almost childlike in comparison.

"Though my lady is unable to at this time, I offer thanks in her stead for the aid and comfort we have received from you and your men."

He spoke calmly but cautiously, and his face remained expressionless.

"If you would direct me towards Falkreath, we would leave immediately," he continued, his eyes never breaking contact with the Jarl, "I, nor my lady I'm sure, would desire to consume your provisions and take shelter from your men any longer than necessary."

As the Jarl's eyes bore down on him, Mordistair pursed his lips and steadied his gaze with creased brows, every fiber in his being wanting nothing more than to take his lady and flee the rebel camp. His hand, clad in a black leather glove, twitched, anxious to have possession of his ebony blade. He could feel the cold steel of his dagger brush against his calf, hidden deep in the pressed folds of his leather boots, but only felt an equally cold sense of comfort for the small blade would not overcome a den of bears.

"Such a silver tongue for one so young," the Jarl finally scoffed, "but you shall not leave this tent by evading my questions, little knight."

"I guard my lady, and ensure her safety as she travels," Mordistair continued, ignoring the repeated insult.

"And for what purpose does she travel? Rose Knights do not guard mere travelers. Rose Knights do not deign to leave that stinking excuse for a capital you call Wayrest," here he paused to sneer, looking down upon the representing knight before him, "You carry arms like warriors, yet you skulk about, safe and soft in those manors and castles, rotting away in clouds of perfume. Your king must be quite interested in Skyrim's affairs to send one of his petal encased clodhoppers to guard an emissary," he adjusted his crossed arms, and with a disgusted grimace, continued, "You Bretons can't just fight and squabble amongst yourselves like you always have, you have to come to my country to build alliances with those occupiers and their bastard Thalmor masters. Is that why your king sent that mongrel here, a foot firm in both camps, in bed with those wretches that stain these lands?"

"We have no connection to these Imperials you face," Mordistair began to contest, clenching his fist, growing agitated at the slurs cast against his charge, "we are but two visitors to Skyrim, with ties to none."

"A curious choice, to visit a country in the middle of a war," the Jarl mocked, finally stepping forth and lifting himself from the table edge to stand mere inches from the Rose Knight, sneering as he gazed down into the young man's eyes, hissing contemptuously, "Do you stand here expecting me to believe one of Wayrest's royal knights is here to simply make casual pilgrimage during a Nordic winter with a woman in tow?"

"We did not anticipate the scope and severity of your rebellion," the knight retorted, "I intend to keep her far from this war."

"And yet you are here, eating my meat, drinking my mead, sitting in front of my fires."

"We shall leave as soon as my weapon is returned, as I have already promised. Your soldiers offered us aid and I accepted, but if we are not welcome, then we shall leave for the nearest town at once," the knight asserted, becoming further irritated with the Jarl's assumptions and discourteous tone. He debated whether to begin crafting an assuaging narrative for the northern Jarl, or to simply remain aloof, for her feared any details whether true or false would displease him; his bearish captor seemed determined to despise him.

The Jarl's face grew tighter with frustration and building ire as he closed the distance between he and the knight. A full two head's taller, casting cold blue eyes down upon the young Rose Knight he warned between gritted teeth, "I will know who you are, who this elf mongrel is, and where you are traveling to boy, or the neither of you shall leave. I will not ask again."

Staring with equal determination, Mordistair curled his lips in hostility, exhausted and quite finished with the bear clad warrior's lack of civility.

"Our names will mean nothing to you, our anonymity is necessary for my lady's protection. We travel north, but I am permitted to say nothing more," he quickly maintained, and with a steeled voice, avowed, stressing every word, "We have no interest in this war."

The Rose Knight had intentions of securing freedom and what promise he could procure of safe passage through the Jarl's freshly claimed forest territory for he and his charge, but realized too late the degree of insult caused by his continuous aversion to the Jarl's questions. His ability to negotiate and plea his case had been hampered by his exhaustion, by the pain that racked his body, by his intense hunger, by the overwhelming desire to simply fall where he stood and let sleep or death claim him, whichever came first. With nothing more to say that would not reveal that which he was bound to keep secret, he bit his tongue again in chastisement, nose wrinkling slightly at the motion, noting the Jarl's growing fury. His fingers twitched desperately for his blade, for he knew he had spoiled his only attempt to come to terms with the Jarl amicably.

The two stared at one another for a moment, their frustration and contempt now equaled, the impasse leaving no space for further discussion. The bearish commander simply sneered in contempt, his face twisted to the point of showing teeth.

"I am not satisfied."

* * *

Gwynayne sought out the warmth of the fire and weakly turned her head toward the flames. Still asleep, she moaned quietly, her face crossed with distress.

"_Papa!"_

_She rushed forward and jumped into her father's open arms, colliding eagerly into the soft velvet robes that quickly encircled her. Her feet dangled off the ground and the aging man spun her about twice, laughing manically, utterly overjoyed, before a final tight embrace. With a single content sigh, he tenderly patted his daughter's hair, setting her back to the floor after a few long moments. _

"_Oh my dear little Gwynii, you shall break my back someday," he teased with a soft chuckle._

_Giggling, she took a step back to let her father regain his composure as he pretended to massage his back._

"_I won't apologize, Papa! I missed you far too much!" she exclaimed, beaming. Her arms swung excitedly at her sides, with far too much pent up energy she did not know what to do with herself. Though gradually her smile faded and looking toward the floor she softly, forlornly continued, "I haven't seen you since the harvest, Papa…I haven't seen anyone."_

_The King's smile fell, and for a moment, he only started at his daughter. Tucking a stray white strand of hair behind her ear, he rubbed her cheek and bowed to look her in the eye, his free hand resting on his knee to support his aging frame._

"_I…I know, my dear. And I wish I could explain-"_

"_Mordistair never let me leave the cottage!" she suddenly interrupted, her fists balled at her sides and her cheeks blush with indignation, "I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't see anyone! You needed me Papa! Why did you send me away?"_

_Angry tears were now trickling down her cheeks and neck as she stared expectantly into her father's eyes, demanding answers. Her shoulders quivered and lips trembled until, with a great cry, she thrust herself into his arms once again, sobbing into his chest, overwhelmed with confliction and confusion. _

"_Oh my Gwynii," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her shaking figure in a tight embrace, rubbing her back, "I know these past months have been difficult for you, my darling. I have missed you more than I believe you shall ever realize. These halls have lost such color and light since you left."_

"_Then why did you banish me?" she sobbed, heaving on the words._

_Suddenly the King chuckled softly._

"_Oh, Gwynii, it seems you have not lost your sense of theatrics. I hope you have not thought yourself a criminal all this time?" he teased with mock incredulity at his daughter's talk of banishment, "Surely Mordistair did not treat you like a prisoner? No, he was the perfect nursemaid, fretting about like a mother hen as usual, yes?"_

_Her crying quieted as she peeked above her father's robes, trying to stifle a small but growing smile through waning tears. The mere thought of her knight garbed in her nursemaid's wimple and veil, chasing her about with lifted skirts as he crooned and chastised in the crone's horrid voice finally brought her to laugh. Imagining a similar likeness of the knight as his daughter, the King too began to share a hearty chuckle. _

"_I hope you were not too cruel to the poor boy, my dear," he chided, still a teasing sense about him, "he seemed quite weary when you two arrived."_

"_Mordistair was boorish and loathsome, like he always is," she glowered, "he sought only to torture me! And he exceeded his station! He stole my letters, papa! He would tell me nothing of you, no matter how much I worried, he would lock me away, he made me eat horrid pottage," here she began to sniffle again, fighting back another wave of fresh tears, "I didn't know what was happening, he stole me away before I could see…Dyv…oh, Dyv!"_

_She bawled, remembering the true source of her sorrow, and her father gripped her tight at the mention of his lost son's name, biting his lip to hold back tears of his own._

"_I never got to say goodbye!" she cried out, shoulders heaving against her father's mighty frame as she shook, weeping._

_Deprived of a funeral she would never witness, snatched from the side of the brother she would never send off, she now could only just recall her last visit to the young boy's quarters, nearly two weeks before her guardian had fled with her under the last of the cover of waning night, as morn's first light broke across the distant Bjoulsae river, before even the first calls for preparations for the ensuing ceremony could be declared. _

_Though it was now many months past, she would forever recall his gentle smile, the eagerness shown in his eyes upon her final visit to his dreary, secluded quarters. As always, he was propped against the many pillows that surrounded his fragile, tender frame, head askew, his neck too weak to keep himself properly straight and stout. But his smile remained, and he beamed when she had rushed through the doors to his bedchamber, giggling over some silly tale she shared with the Rose Knight that followed her. Her pace quickened, for she adored his smile, innocent and sweet, framed with soft curls of mouse brown hair that touched his cheeks, as tender and soft as he. She and her knight had only to burst into his chambers, smiling and laughing amongst themselves, and he would come to life, gripping his quilts in anticipation of their stories and treats._

_And now what remained of his body was forever entombed in the family crypt, cold and unmoving, never to be seen or touched by the sun's light again, as he always longed for in life. _

"_I know this must all seem quite confusing. I…" the King's voice, already faint with grief, trailed, unable to continue. _

_Silent, he gazed out the open doors of the balcony. The sun had begun to set, and the room was now bathed in rich hues of gold, copper, and wine. Still clutching Gwynayne close to his chest, absentmindedly stroking the hair that lay across her back, his eyes crossed the line of paintings that span the whole of the room, massive oil and canvas works that stretched from floor to ceiling, entombed in grand gold frames that poured over with roses and vines, an exhibition of the now long deceased faces of his ancestors. It was the last one that he solemnly lingered upon with a wistful longing. The waning evening light disappeared from the farthest edge, leaving it eclipsed in spreading shadow. Though he'd held his composure, the joy of seeing his long absent child still fresh, he finally cried out, a raw wail, and held his daughter closer, touching his forehead to her own. _

"_Papa?"_

"Papa?"

Everything suddenly felt strange. Though her senses were muddled and dull, Gwynayne felt as if she were being tossed about the deck of a ship amidst a storm. With a sickening turn, she felt her head lurch, and her body forcibly pulled in an unnatural manner, a blossom of pain erupting in her joints from the jostle.

"Papa?" she called out with a groggy slur, still in the last clutches of sleep. As her eyes gradually began to flutter open, she moaned in weak protest as she felt her arms being wrenched behind her back, thick fingers digging into her soft forearms with brute callousness.

"Don't you dare touch her!"

With a gasp, Gwynayne finally awoke, at last coming to her senses.

At first she could see only shadows dancing across the ground before her, shifting and shaping, bordered by the faint glow of a nearby fire. As the grip about her shoulders and wrists tightened, she regained her faculties and immediately began to struggle. Straining her head to the side she caught sight of fur clad soldiers as they began to tightly wind a rope about her arms. Dazed and confused, she could only thrash about as panic overwhelmed her. Crying out, she urgently tried to pull away from the foreign grasps and grips, but was quickly overcome and forced to the ground, gauntleted hands crushing her back into the moist and muddy ground, pressing roughly against her spine as she continued to squirm in protest.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, trying in vain to pry her mouth away from the sopping ground, disgusted by the mud and filth, still attempting to again wriggle away from the hands that now began to bind her legs.

"Mordistair! MORDISTAIR!" she screamed, desperate and begging, her voice still freshly raw from the river's attempts to drown her.

"Leave her alone!"

"Mordistair?"

Again she screamed out to her knight upon the sound of his voice, terror consuming her as she furiously searched for her guardian companion, eyes darting about every direction she could manage to seek him out. With a sudden heave, she was pulled from the ground and a pair of soldiers gripped her arms as they began to drag her across the clearing, her arms and legs now bound with thick and biting ropes, damp and smelling of rot. In the dim light of a distant fire, she at last caught sight of her beleaguered knight, set upon as she had been, vigorously trying to fight off the multiple soldiers that were attempting to bind and contain him. She could see him gasping for breath, back hunched as he struggled to stay upright, much less retain proper form, and the cold air before him was plagued with constants huffs of his warm breath as he struggled. For every soldier he subdued, two more rushed into the thrall, their tall hulking forms quickly cloaking his own, until there was only a mass of swarming Nords, eager for a quick jeer or punch.

Utterly confused, having been unconscious since being pulled from the river, she looked to her captors and again began to squirm and struggle, demanding with impatient cries to be released at once. The more she pulled, the tighter the soldiers gripped her, and as she began to drag her feet, they simply lifted her from the ground, as easily a simple sack of potatoes.

"Stop struggling and this will be easier for us all," one of the soldiers warned, expressionless and tired, "call out to your friend, tell him to surrender before he's beaten to a bloody pulp."

Worried, Gwynayne sought out to discern the ongoing struggle between Mordistair and the surrounding circle of soldiers, noticing a beastly man overseeing the affair with arms crossed standing just outside a nearby tent. The Rose Knight swung at the soldiers, shoving and punching at those who tried to overcome him, nearly flailing as he continued to grow tired, and his body jostled from one edge of the fray to the other as the rebels began to land further more strikes against his failing body. Suddenly, the bear clad man watching the fight drew his sword. The men carrying her stopped as they noted his intentions, only a few paces away now, and he marched quickly to their side. Swift and callous, with great impatience and little fanfare, the bear cloaked man lifted his sword to her neck, firmly holding the cool blade against her throat.

"Enough, boy!" he shouted, pushing the blade against her throat hard enough to raise her chin, making her wince in fear and pain as it pressed against her soft skin.

Without hesitation, Mordistair paused his assaults, his arms now poised before him with still clenched fists, and he stared at his now terrorized charge. Panting and gasping, shoulders shaking, his eyes wide and despairing with helplessness, he held her gaze as she began to tremble, on the verge of shedding tears. Wasting no time, the soldiers keenly beat him to the ground, thrusting his face into the cold, damp earth. Some began to kick his prostrate body in retaliation, laughing as he began to gasp and cough.

"No! Stop! STOP!" Gwynayne pleaded, looking to the man who towered above her, his face cloaked in shadows.

With a look of derision, tiring of the whole debacle, the Jarl sheathed his sword and waved his hand, ordering his soldiers to take his prisoners to the edge of camp.

Gwynayne cried out as she saw Mordistair lifted to his feet, being dragged now as she. Blood dripped from his forehead, nose, and lips, staining his face and cravat as it pooled at his neck. His hair, once tightly pulled into a crisp ponytail now lay disheveled across his face and hung limply across his shoulder, matted with blood and sweat. He no longer struggled and would not meet her gaze as he was dragged along beside her, for he kept his face turned aside, eyes cloaked in shadows, so she could not read his expression. To hear no words of comfort or even resistance from her knight was disconcerting, his apparent surrender to the situation so at odds with his usual manner. To see him in even a remotely unseemly fashion, much less suffering from actual wounds, even more so. Too see that he could not even face her caused her to worry even more than his fresh wounds, and she called out to him, to coax him from whatever distant loathing spot he had carved for himself within the recesses of his shielded thoughts. At the sound of her initial call, confused and pleading, she thought she spotted the knight grit his teeth, wincing from pain or shame she did not know, but still he did not reply, tucking his head further to the side.

Heart racing, she trembled from frost and fright as the soldiers brought them to the edge of camp, where the faint glow of the camp's dwindling fires would not reach. With rough heaves, they were dragged into the grasping embrace of the cold shadows and creeping cold, into the dark of the fresh Nordic night.


	3. Chapter Three - Frost Bitten Binds

**Author's Note: **Ahhhh, I did not intend for this chapter to take so long to edit! All changes were actually made in only the last two days, I've just been very busy with work and getting ready to move, so it was quite delayed. Thankfully, the next two chapters require much less editing and I hope to actually release them together, ideally within the next week or so, before finally moving on to new chapters. I also didn't intend for this chapter to be so long, but hopefully it will be an enjoyable read! As always, feel free to leave reviews and comments, and let me know what you think. (And welcome to all the new readers and followers!)

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Frost Bitten Binds**

"My Jarl, please, I ask only that you reconsider – "

"You ask that I kneel before mongrels and interlopers! That a Jarl should scrape and grovel and beg forgiveness at their feet," Ulfric snarled, snorting through clenched teeth at the very notion, "As if I am at fault in this matter!"

"Please, my liege, I am thinking only what is prudent for you and your cause. Wayrest has remained neutral in our fight, as has all of High Rock. I do not ask for you to treat the Bretons as friends, nor even to trust them, but," the Nord paused nervously at the entrance to the Jarl's tent, again choosing his words with diplomatic care, "surely if word of aggression against such courtiers were to reach Wayrest and the other kingdoms, they would see reason to question their status as bystanders. There is no shortage of wealth in Wayrest, they would only need to give aid to our enemies in order to – "

"Enough!" the beleaguered Jarl thundered as he turned to face his officer, his arms waving wildly in indignation as he lay forth his series of objections, "I tire of this festering foreign blight, these ceaseless dignitaries and soldiers crashing and parading through my country without question, whether they are from Cyrodiil or High Rock or those blasted Summer Isles I do not care! They have no business in Skyrim."

The soldier was silent, unable to meet the Jarl's now cold and piercing gaze. His lord's longstanding ire and contempt would not be quelled with pleas for mercy. With a forlorn sigh, he finally asked, "And if Wayrest decides to retaliate against the Stormcloaks? By funding our enemies or taking up arms themselves?"

Ulfric crossed his arms with a derisive snort, his prior rage calmed only by his flippancy.

"I doubt even those pompous jesters would be so foolish to fight for a single knight," the Jarl determined, resolute. For a brief moment the Nord thought he saw his Jarl waver, a hint of debate and reservation cross his face, an internal dialogue hidden within. Seemingly to assure himself more than his officer, the Jarl muttered subtly, accented with the faintest hint of uncertainty, "They will pay the bounty."

But the impression of hesitation passed as quickly as it had appeared, and with a tired sigh, the Jarl ran a calloused hand down his jaw to stroke his chin. Appearing nearly bored with the thought of an agitated Wayrest court, he rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, massaging the muscles in his neck before turning to face the dimming candle light. He lowered his hand to brush against the worn map, idly dragging his fingers along the faded parchment until falling upon one of the battalion markers for his soldiers residing in Windhelm. Lips pursed, brows crossed anxiously, he toyed with the small wooden marker, tossing it from one hand to the other, before rubbing his fingers against the coarse grain, following the details of the crudely painted blue bear, his expression now lost in contemplation.

"My liege?" the soldier finally asked, curious as to his commander's thoughts, still hopeful a more accommodating resolution could be reached in regards to the travelers. Though his promise to the Rose Knight pestered and plagued his guilt ridden thoughts without end, he kept such former agreements to himself, knowing they mattered little to the troubled Jarl.

"Hearthfire in nearly upon us and this winter shall be long and harsh. I do not have the luxury of Cyrodiil's endless fields and bountiful harvests," he answered after a moment's pause, cold determination and his usual bearish demeanor returned, "My men require provisions more than this boy and mongrel require your misplaced sympathy. A letter of bounty has already been sent to Wayrest with proof of their capture."

"Proof?" the soldier hastily queried, fearing the worst. The Bretons had been detained only an hour prior, that a letter and requisite proof of capture had already been sent in such haste left the Nord with deep concern, for both the travelers and the integrity of his Jarl's plan.

With a tired expression, already growing uninterested in the continued line of questions, the Jarl turned to set the battalion marker back to its proper place upon the map.

"A gold pin taken from the mongrel's cloak."

"Ah…that – "

"My decision has been made," the northern Jarl snapped brusquely, unwilling to engage any further in the ceaseless pestering of his officer, "there is nothing more to discuss of the matter. You are dismissed."

* * *

He ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, his lips, his gums. Though the chilled night air had long since dried the blood that coated his mouth, the sharp metallic taste tormented him still, no matter how often he tried to lick and scrub it away, his tongue now sore and coarse for his efforts. It was the only movement he allowed himself to make, the periodic attempts to wipe the taste of rank inadequacy from his mouth. Though stray strands of matted hair stuck to his face, distorting his vision and irritating his skin, the ropes bit and twisted his wrists, his joints throbbed, and the frozen Nordic air burned the back of his nose and throat with cold, it was the persistent taste that truly irritated him, settled deep into the crevices his tongue would not reach.

Though he had been restricted and immobile for nearly an hour, it was only now that he at last relented to his fatigue. Exasperated from his latest failed attempt to rid his mouth of the taste, his head lagged to the side, coming to rest lazily against his shoulder. For a moment the sight of his charge's dress came into view, the soiled and wrinkled fabric rippling in the faint breeze. Startled, fearing she would turn to face him, he straightened his head, desperate to focus his weakening vision on anything but his fellow captive. His sight blurred as he stared dully at the ground before him, his only distraction the rustling, frost bitten grass. He blinked, trying to focus his gaze, doing what little he could to stave off the overwhelming desire to sleep. For a moment, he harbored a faint, cynical smile as he mulled over his otherwise perplexing desire to remain awake.

"_I am no more use to her awake than I am asleep, even if a guard should attempt to harass her, what could I do to stop them…"_ he thought to himself, his smile quickly contorting into a weary grimace, _"I cannot even bring myself to face her."_

Though his senses remained dull and unfocused from fatigue and injury, he thought he could hear a faint whimper, feel a slight tremble and pull at the ropes that bound them both. The blood rose to cheeks, now flush with shame that drove him to hunch his shoulders and pull as far away from his charge's side as he could manage without drawing attention. He still could not bring himself to respond to her discomfort despite the agony her unanswered cries brought forth, driving him to ever building despair and disgrace. He merely bit his lip, accepting the fresh burst of pain from piercing into the newly formed scabs and the intense iron tang that plagued him once more.

"_Pick it up boy! On your feet!" _

The knight's eyes widened with instinctual fear, jolted from his momentary stupor. The long distant commands of the baron sent a chill far sharper than even the Nordic night air coursing across his skin. His hair stood erect across his arms as a snaking trail of goose bumps caressed his tense form. He clenched his teeth as his breath caught in his throat and his heart raced, his very pulse startled. The derision, the utter disdain and contempt was unmistakable in the once familiar voice, the long distant memory now tormenting him in his fatigue induced delusions. His head swayed with languor, and for a sickening moment his vision blurred and he saw only a searing sun, the intense and sweltering rays casting a halo that swaddled a towering frame before him, rendering it as shadow.

A sudden crack of wood against flesh left the Rose Knight paralyzed with terror, for the delusions were becoming increasingly sharp and focused, he believed to feel even the wood grain itself, splintered and rough as it dragged against his skin.

"_I said up!"_

He intuitively flinched against the ropes, delusion and reality passing before him in equal turn as he prepared for further strikes, for the relentless bellowed commands of the baron, his state as a captive to rebellious Nords nearly forgotten. For a brief moment he was a child once again, cowering on bloodied cobblestones, his ears now ringing and a sense of nausea overwhelming him. The bygone humiliation he once felt as boy, the endless despair of enraging the baron with his inadequacy was brought forth to torment him once more through his nightmarish delusion, fueled by the shame he fostered for failing his charge, for placing her in such dangerous settings, a self-loathing string linking the shared misery of his past and present selves, a natural conduit for the unwelcomed illusions.

Though distorted and muddled, he could still hear his own past pleas for aid and mercy, the childish and shameful calls for the training to cease as he cowered from the blows of the shadowed form of the baron before him.

The memory of the pain, of the blows against his prostrate and frail body as it lay on the courtyard stone and the throbbing bruises and fresh scrapes that covered his skin gradually began to fade, the sensation of such pain dulling as his vision darkened. For a moment, the knight believed his torment finished, waning away as quickly as it had arrived.

"_Is this how you will conduct yourself in the count's presence?" _the baron's fuming voice suddenly appeared once again, now echoing against the dining hall's towering stone walls, reverberating off the arched ceilings and empty space, the once bright and burning sun overtaken by the dark and cloistered shadows of the great hall in which the knight's delirium now carried him,_ "Will you continue to plague my house and humiliate my namesake with this weakness?"_

"_I – "_

Mordistair found himself responding to the past questions, a drive to quell the humiliating anguish his exhaustion had brought upon him.

"_I will make this right. Leave me be."_

"_I will do what I must to make this right," _he repeated again, his delusional stupor drawing to a close as he regained some semblance of his senses, remembering where he was. With a relieved sigh, the grass before him came into focus, the dark, candle lit hall disappeared, and the baron's voice was no more, disappeared into the surrounding night.

"_I must make this right. I cannot fail,"_ he again resolved, turning to catch sight once more of his shivering charge, ready to face the results of his failure, to make such lapse of his duties right once again.

* * *

The fine mist that coated the Nordic camp, the last remnant of the evening torrent that had spilled onto the southern hold had at long last ceased, though a blanket of soft and delicate droplets remained, clinging to all the rains had touched. As the moons began to appear, shining brightly from behind dissipating clouds, the night's growing chill began to freeze the sodden ground. Droplets spread and burst forth, a pale network of faint, frost spider webs emerging across pines, tents, and cloaks alike, encasing all in its wake with a crisp and biting embrace. Tinged with the faintest remnant of smoke from the distant Nord camp, the faint, but harsh and nipping winds grazed the pair of travelers bound to the great pine, the swells of frigid air racking their trembling bodies.

Helplessly quivering against the rough bark of the tree, Gwynayne's fingers and toes curled as she shivered. The inner layers of her dress still clung to her legs, no longer dripping but still damp, dry only in a few patches along the frayed and tattered edges. Even the slightest of breezes whipped the soft layers of lace, chiffon, and silk across her limbs, the fluttering fabric caressing her with fresh chills that raced across her skin. Though nearly every inch of her battered body throbbed with pain, her scalp ached and pinched fiercely, a constant and unremittent distraction, for the soldiers in their brutal haste had tied strands of her hair into their knots as they bound her. The rest hung limp across her shoulders in damp clumps and tangled knots, cascading onto the forest floor in a disheveled heap, twisted with fallen leaves and pine needles. Her once fine fur lined boots sagged sadly toward her ankles, matted with mud and soiled beyond use, the fine lacing now entirely undone.

Her nose and ears had become bright pink, burning with cold. As she exhaled her breath froze in the night, a pale mist that hovered before her before dissipating into the darkness of the forest shadows. Her thick velvet and fur lined cloak was sorely missed; thinking only of its warmth, she shivered again with cold, grimacing from the pain of her chattering teeth. Staring out to the fires with intense longing, she strained forward, wincing at the effort, for yet another lock of her hair pulled taught against her now burning scalp.

With little else to distract her from her discomfort, she sought out the Nords who guarded the tree line, the camp's natural perimeter and the makeshift prison for the young Bretons. Though the dying fires of the Nordic camp did little to aid her, she caught sight of the nearest guards, the closest leaning against a nearby tree, sighing in exasperation as he pulled a Talos amulet from beneath his mail, dully thumbing it over. The other shook his head, she thought perhaps in an attempt to remain awake, but he quickly relaxed against the low hanging branch of a nearby pine, staring off into the clear night sky as he hunched his shoulders and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.

"My lady?"

Gwynayne turned quickly in surprise, drawn immediately by the sound of her companion's voice and to the phrase she had heard now thousands of times. She strained her neck to glance upward, anticipating what more he would finally say, for her guardian had not spoken, nor even turned to face her since being bound to the tree, despite her initial pleads for recognition. His voice was low and apprehensive, she could barely hear him, even in the silence of the night. His head hung low, his chin nearly touching his breastplate and his loosened hair fell limply across his face, hiding his expression, the customary crimson ribbon that held his hair in place nearly entirely undone as one tail rested, crumpled and wrinkled across his shoulder. Turned away from her gaze, she could only make out his taut pulled lips, tense with unease and hesitation.

"Mordistair?" she eagerly whispered in reply, straining and twisting against the rough pull of the ropes as she struggled to finally catch sight of her knight's hidden features, desperate for further communication, for comfort of some means. For a moment she thought she saw him wince, perhaps in pain as she pulled against the ropes, but he merely turned further away from her, pulling against the binds himself.

"Mordistair," she cried out with hushed insistency, mindful of the guards, "stop that at once." Though her orders were resolute and tone commanding, the façade quickly faded and her shoulders began to tremble as tears built in her eyes, so unaccustomed to the situation she had found herself in, her Rose Knight so distant and detached. With little strength remaining to combat her knight's unconscionable degree of aloofness, her quivering voice was now only capable of pleading.

"Please, Mordistair, why are you playing this game with me? I don't…please, I just…I…" even through her babbling she saw no intention in the knight to further interact with her. Exasperated, she finally cried out, "Mordistair look at me."

He visibly cringed, at last giving notice of her pleads and commands. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his back as best he could and turned to face his charge, head still hung low and his cheek flush with shame and biting cold. With great effort his raised his head to meet her gaze.

The Rose Knight had never displayed such a stubborn degree of deliberate impudence, nor had he ever ignored her so completely and with such seeming callousness and disregard, not even in his rare moments of jest. Gwynayne did not know what to make of his sudden and uncharacteristic insubordination, his cold defiance. But, as his eyes met her own, she struggled not to cry out at the hallowed expression. For all the years the Rose Knight had been at her side, never had she seen him so haggard and morose, so utterly overcome and drained of his usual poise. His eyes darted from one side to the other, only able to hold her gaze for a mere moment before he broke contact, seeming eager to focus on anything beside her. His head ducked slightly, and his lips curled and pursed, forming such a display she thought he had suddenly fallen ill beside her. Blood still caked the far side of his face in thick crusted streams and clumps, staining his cheek and neck. Bruises at his temple, jaw line, and eye had come into full bloom, dull and dark purple stains edged in sickly yellow and green rims. His lips were crusted with old scabs and fresh blood, and she quickly lost count of the bite marks.

Unable to devise anything meaningful to say to console the wounded knight, to acknowledge his state without sending him further into despair, she merely whispered his name. He flinched, the pity in her voice causing him to recoil, to hide his face once again behind a curtain of fallen hair as he turned aside to stare once more at the ground before him

"It…is not enough, I know," he whispered sullenly, "but…I apologize, my lady. I should never have allowed this to happen."

Unsure of how best to respond, happy only to hear him speak, Gwynayne smiled, momentarily forgetting their predicament. Then, with a quick sigh, she blinked away the last of her tears and straightened to stare crossly at the knight.

"That is a very poor apology."

Mordistair's eyes widened in surprise, taken aback by her sudden bluntness and return to customary form, her momentary pity replaced with her usual merciless and biting tone.

"My lady, I – "

"I thought you were dead at first, or perhaps unconscious. But you moved enough to let me know you were merely being a disobedient reprobate, ignoring me entirely," she continued to sniffle through her chastisement, at times appearing to near the verge of further tears.

"I, ah – " the Rose Knight was at a loss for words, her scolding frank and harsh beyond even his expectations, "Lady Gwynayne, I…I have no excuse. I did not mean to cause you additional pain, I…I merely…" he sighed, unable to express the disappointment and shame he harbored for himself.

Gwynayne only stared on as he struggled to speak. Though confused by his previous silence, irritated at being ignored so thoroughly amidst the chaos of the evening, she was unaccustomed to such lack of composure, to the absence of the customary verbal grace and dignified manner within which the knight unremittingly carried himself.

The knight suddenly straightened, brows steeled and shoulders no longer hunched. He shook his head, revitalizing himself, no longer lost in thought and fumbling to find the appropriate words.

"I haven't the right to ask for apologies, my lady, you are right to be angry with me," he proclaimed, his voice now steady and adamant as he turned to face his charge once more, a clear sense of vigor returned to him, "I failed you, and had not the courage to admit as much."

"Mordistair," she groaned, growing mildly exasperated with her guardian.

Gwynayne had long thought her knight far too serious and droll, and for such a self-disparaging remark at any other time, she would have rebuked and teased, but the events of evening had subdued the normally irresistible yearning to taunt, and so she merely shook her head at his folly.

"Is this to become a cruel habit of yours?" she enquired, sighing airily, not entirely able to hide the faintest hint of her mocking nature as she thought to further punish the knight with his misbehavior, "A knight that abandons their charge is not a very useful knight, much less a mute one."

"Lady Gwynayne…" he pleaded, his face distraught and his cheeks again blushing as she recounted his sins.

Despite the harsh and teasing words, the tension between the travelers diminished, both accustomed to each other's manners.

With a sigh, the knight cocked his head to the side, becoming bored with the ground and idly letting his eyes rest upon his boots as he mindlessly kicked at the earth, upturning small pebbles and chilled dirt. Brows suddenly furled with growing realization, his head snapped forward and he turned quickly to his charge.

"Do you have strength enough to cast a spell?" he whispered, minding the patrolling guards at the forest's edge, though he could not entirely hide the small degree of excitement in his voice, a certain hint of pride at the prospect of becoming useful once again.

"I – "

"Bow your head," he quickly interrupted, still speaking in hushed, but desperate, tones, "turn away from me."

Perplexed at his abrupt change in mood, much less his apparent comfort at demanding her compliance, she scowled, eyeing him curiously, before eventually turning away.

"Can you manage," he asked again.

"I…I don't know. I…" she paused, a hint of fear on her voice as she whispered, "Mordistair, can't you explain me to where we are in the very least? Please, I don't understand anything that has happened since – "

"Hush!" He snarled with discreet intensity, catching sight of a nearing patrol, his presence far too close for comfort.

Gwynayne flinched at his harsh outburst, not expecting her knight to regain his calculating composure so quickly. Shivering, she bowed her head, laying it atop her drawn forth knees and curled away from the knight. She had only just finished teasing him for his failings and was neither prepared nor eager for his confidence and insistence for obedience to return so fervently.

"My lady, I am sorry," he hurriedly apologized, turning to face her, "Please forgive me, I simply…" he came to a stop and sighed. He saw her shaking, whether from cold or tears he did not know. Her gauze and silken dress ruffled in the chilling breeze and she curled tighter upon herself, the loosened ribbons along her sleeves enveloping her as they twisted in the wind. The guards had removed her fur lined cloak as they bound her, leaving his charge exposed to the frozen night. Only loose, billowing layers of thin and frayed fabric separated Gwynayne from the chill winds and creeping cold.

He glanced quickly to each of the guards, now returned to their former posts, satisfied they had become sufficiently drowsy and occupied with their own thoughts. Quickly he shuffled a few inches closer to his lady and tenderly tapped her head with his own. Sniffling, she slowly turned her head to peep between tangled locks of white hair. He smiled to her, silently pleading for forgiveness and giving what comfort he could.

"Try to come closer if you can, this night will only get colder I fear," he whispered softly, motioning to his side with a quick bow of his head. After only a moment's pause, Gwynayne nodded and began to squirm her way closer to the knight. Though she was straining against the ropes, now biting into her limbs, she welcomed the warmth of her guardian's body and lay her head against his arm.

Satisfied she had become settled, he began to apologize, "I did not intend to sound so –"

"Mean?" Gwynayne quickly asserted, glancing up to give a withering stare.

A small smile crossed the knight's lips and he nodded.

"Yes. I – " he stopped short as one of the guards glanced lazily over the prisoners. Drumming his fingers over his sheath, the Nord quickly resumed his relaxed slump against the pine and watched as his fellow companions shared the last of their mead and tales around the fires.

"My lady, speak softly. We may have little time." Facing away, he lowered his head and continued, his own voice barely a faint whisper, "My dagger is still concealed within my right boot. Can you use a telekinesis spell to draw it forth?"

Her face immediately paled, thinking only of the less then successful attempts she had made in the past to play tricks on fellow courtiers with the spell. Despite her efforts, she had brought more suffering unto her own body than any of her intended victims. Though loathe to admit it, the spell was beyond her capabilities, and her past attempts were mere childish longing to play with abilities out of her reach.

"I…" she paused, recalling the assured pain and nausea such an attempt would bring, then nodded, her brows steeled and expression determined, "I shall try."

"Be as inconspicuous as possible. If you haven't the strength, don't force yourself, you shall only draw the guards' attention. Pretend to sleep, we mustn't give them cause to draw near."

"Alright."

Gwynayne shut her eyes and settled deeper into the folds of Mordistair's sleeve, hoping to appear asleep. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind, thinking only of the ebony dagger hidden within the knight's boot. She pictured the soft flourishing curves of the hilt, entwined with strands of pure silver and garnished with a crimson rose. She tried to imagine the feel of the cold steel against her palm, the slight curve resting neatly within her hand. Though her hands were bound behind her back, she raised her fingers in what little attempt she could to invoke the blade forward. With another breath she felt the now common warmth spread through her body that accompanied the particular spell, pooling in her palm and fingertips. She reached out to the blade, concentrating only on slipping it from its leather cocoon. Wriggling her nose in frustration, she felt resistance. Swaying her fingers from side to side, she attempted to free the dagger.

"Keep going, I can feel it moving," the knight quickly whispered, hushed but encouraging.

Steeling her mind's inner eye, she continued to focus on the blade, imagining it slide from the fold within the boot. The warmth in her fingers began to grow hot and her breath had become heavy and strained.

"I think I'm losing it," she whispered between weary pants, her face now pinched from the struggle and exertion.

"You're nearly there," he rushed to assure, "just a bit further."

Gwynayne winced as the heat in her palm and fingers turned to sharp pain, as if they had been thrust into an open flame. Suddenly she felt Mordistair jump beside her. Her eyes flew open in worry, catching sight of her knight stifling a cry as he jerked his leg forward, gritting his teeth.

One of the guards noticed the sudden movement and glanced to the prisoners, his attention piqued. Gwynayne could only stare in fearful silence as Mordistair regained his composure, his body tense against her own. Grimacing, the Nord began to rush toward the pair, his blond locks and faded blue sash whipping wildly behind him. Gwynayne ducked against Mordistair's side, nuzzling her cheek against his arm and held her breath, terrified of what was to come as the guard neared.

Agitated, taking long and determined strides, the burly Nord made his way across the edge of the clearing. With bated breath, the prisoners watched as he soundlessly stormed past, quickly making his way past the tree to which they were bound.

"Ay! Wake up you idiot!" the guard called out to his companion.

The young rebel had fallen asleep against a gnarled tree, snoring softly into the night, but jumped with a start as the angered guard grabbed his shoulder and shoved him awake.

"Get your hands off me!" the weary soldier rebuffed groggily, "Mind your own post and leave me to mine."

"You'd get us both beaten if I left you to yours. Save your sleep for after your bloody shift," the soldier muttered angrily, and turned to resume his watch.

Mordistair and Gwynayne quickly shut their eyes and pretended to sleep. The soldier gave but a glance as he returned to his pine.

Minutes passed until Mordistair began to stir, lifting his head from Gwynayne's. Cautiously, she opened her own eyes and watched as the knight began to straighten his legs, wincing from the effort.

"What happened?" she cried out in hushed tones, her head turned away, fearful the now vigilant guard would notice.

Mordistair groaned between grit teeth as he tried again to straighten his leg.

"If you can..." he began to ask, his voice strained, "please try…to remove the blade…from my calf."

Gwynayne immediately grew pale as her eyes flew to her knight's leg, her mouth open in horror.

"Mordistair! Oh, Mordistair, I didn't mean to, I-I I'm so sorry, Mordistair," she began to babble, once again on the edge of tears, despairing at her handiwork.

The guard stirred, leaning off his tree as he peered toward the two.

"My lady," Mordistair hurriedly whispered, his head strained far to the side, "please…not so loudly. I…I am fine…the blade is not deep."

"Don't move," she whispered softly, staring apologetically to her knight.

Without another word, she held her breathe and spread her fingers, staring determinedly ahead, fixating on the grass before her as she cleared her mind. Exhaling, she closed her eyes and imagined the dagger once again in the palm of her hands. The warmth quickly blossomed in her fingers, growing hotter with even greater speed, her body long ago pushed to its limits. With a trembling moan, she quickly jerked her bound wrists, wrenching the dagger clumsily from Mordistair's flesh.

He immediately gasped, cringing as blood began to freely flow down his calf, pooling at his ankle.

Gwynayne doubled over as far the ropes allowed, silently trying to catch her breath, swaying as her vision began to blur. She felt slightly nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to collapse to the ground. Such an advanced spell was still beyond her grasp.

Lightheaded and woozy, sweating and panting even in the Nordic night, Mordistair stared desperately from the corner of his eye, catching sight of the closest guard. The burly rebel paced amidst the undergrowth, casting suspicious glances and becoming increasingly wary from the sudden gasps, groans, and squirming of the pair. Though he steeled his sights upon the prisoners, he remained at his post. Relieved to see the Nord made no further movement toward them, the knight at last turned his head, grimacing at the effort, but could only watch as his lady struggled from the failed spell in silence.

With the last of her strength Gwynayne straightened herself and leaned against the tree, moaning wearily. She turned her head weakly to the side, cringing as she noticed fresh blood beginning to stain her knight's boot. Her now pale lips trembled as she struggled to whisper.

"I can…still...I…I'll heal…your – "

"Stop," Mordistair pleaded, unable to watch her further harm herself, "No more."

She parted her lips, about to refute, but only crumpled against his side, a final exhausted moan her only retort.

Mordistair tried to cradle her as best he could, and watched with bated breath as the closest guard began to move once again between the trees. Remaining still, their faces hidden and downcast, and with little further movement, the guard soon became disinterested in the pair, turned his back, and began to pace in the opposite direction, circling round to the far reaches of the clearing where the Jarl now slept.

Gwynayne remained limp against Mordistair's side, her face buried deep into his sleeve. The knight was still following the pacing guard, wearily but diligently tracking the Nord as he skulked around the edge of the camp. Suddenly, he felt a small patch of his sleeve grow wet. Concerned, he turned to see his charge trembling as she silently cried against his side.

"No, my lady," he quickly began, "please do not worry yourself – "

"This is all my fault," she softly wailed between sobs. She lifted her head, meeting the knight's eyes, her face red and coated with fresh tears, shaking uncontrollably.

Mordistair longed to brush the sticky trails of tears and matted strands of hair from the girl's cheeks, to wrap her quivering shoulders in a blanket, to provide some means of solace and comfort.

With a slight shake of his head, he consoled his charge.

"The fault is mine, my lady, I alone bear the blame for our confinement."

Glancing quickly to determine the guards' positions as they passed between trees on the far side of the camp, he continued, "I accepted their aid, I relinquished my weapon, I left your side, I…" he stopped, lowering his eyes and smiling softly, "I may not have been entirely cordial to our bearish host."

"But I am the reason we are here, and I still don't know where 'here' is!" she cried out, exasperated with her confusion, sniffling as she recalled her earlier frustration with her ignorance.

Mordistair quickly recounted the few hours his charge had missed, from his first encounter with the soldiers to his interrogation.

"But who are they?" she asked, her tears drying as she pondered over the now filled gaps in her memories, "Not bandits surely, there are far too many of them."

"Stormcloaks, I believe, the sashes alone seem to indicate as much. Their commander is Jarl Ulfric, the ruling Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the recent rebellion, or uprising I suppose, from the Empire's position."

For a moment she stared on in continued confusion, until her eyes widened in realization and surprise.

"The Jarl who killed the king?" she exclaimed, her face aghast as she remembered the manner of the now dead king's execution.

"Mhm," the knight murmured in answer, "supposedly."

"But what do they want with us?" she questioned, her voice low with anxiety as she eyed the tent of the sleeping Jarl, recounting the fear of the few moments she had been within his grasp. Thinking only of tales of the shouting Jarl, the man who killed the king, she shuffled closer to her knight, suddenly ill with unease.

"The Jarl believes we may have ties of some sort to the Imperials, politically or militarily I do not know, perhaps both. He knows we come from Wayrest, and that we are of your father's court, though he did not appear to know to what degree."

"But there must be other Bretons in Skyrim, we have already come across a handful ourselves! What does it matter if we are from Wayrest?"

"I believe most of his fury is directed at me, my lady, I was not…forthcoming with our identities or purpose. He still does not know who we are or our intentions. Though I'm sure he is curious as to why foreign courtiers were found on a riverbank, I doubt he is completely confident in his beliefs that we are spies or Imperials of some sort. As Jarl, I'm sure he is accustomed to getting the information he seeks and my insistency for our anonymity had assuredly left him quite…ah, perturbed," he could not help but smile at his gross understatement of the Jarl's reaction, though it quickly disappeared as he recalled the Jarl's other motivation for such harsh treatment.

He decided to refrain from sharing the northern Jarl's hatred for elves, of his personal distaste for his charge and Gwynayne remained silent, seeming to ponder over the recent revelations.

"Would it truly be so terrible if he knew who we were, where we travel to? It's all quite innocent and we cannot honestly be the first travelers with Winterhold as their destination. I still don't understand myself the need for all this secrecy," she queried, her voice becoming slightly embittered as she continued, turning to stare indignantly at the knight, resentful of the imbalance in knowledge, "it isn't very proper for a simple knight to know more than his master."

"Your father has demanded my silence on the matter, my lady. Such secrecy is necessary, I assure you. We do not keep you in the dark for our amusement."

Straightening, with nose upturned, she looked away from the knight in exaggerated irritation and contempt, "It's still improper. I believe you're exceeding your station, Mordistair."

The knight smiled at his charge's antics, pleased she had momentarily forgotten their predicament, now too busy pretending to be cross and playing her usual precocious games.

With a sigh, she looked to the moons, shivering in a sudden swelling breeze that coursed through the camp.

"This is still my fault, Mordistair," she whispered quietly, almost to herself, "If I hadn't lost our horses, we – "

"Losing the horses wasn't entirely your fault, my lady. I believe the weather may have had a slight hand in the matter," the knight chuckled, remembering how his charge had chased after the frightened ponies on foot for nearly a mile before he could convince her to surrender the chase.

Gwynayne stared at the knight with narrowed eyes, "You're interrupting."

"Forgive me, my lady," the knight pleaded, bowing his head in mock humility, "please continue."

Tossing her head aside, she twisted her body away from the knight, "No, I don't think I shall. I tire of your impertinence."

It had taken years for Mordistair to become accustomed to his charge's fickle tempers and quicksilver emotions, the ease within which she taunted with haughty, abusive remarks, or cried at the slightest trouble she received in turn. Only seventeen when first assigned as his lady's personal guardian, he often inadvertently worsened her moods or took her words too personally. It was only after learning of her status in her father's court and accumulating years of experience with his charge did he come to handle her harsh words and erratic states with relative ease and understanding, however still tiring exchanges with her could easily become.

Silence hung between the two as they watched the fires and circles of soldiers that huddled close for warmth. Even Mordistair, cloaked in armor, began to shiver as the night drew on, growing colder as the stars shone brighter and the moons past through the sky.

"What are we going to do," Gwynayne whimpered, once again bringing her legs close as she tried to warm herself.

"I will try and speak with the Jarl in the morning. I'm sure such a quick moving regiment would not wish to be burdened with prisoners, perhaps I can reason with him. If not…"

He paused, unsure what to say, having no plan to speak of. Gwynayne looked to him, hopeful. When he said nothing, her face fell and she turned away.

"I suppose it shall be up to me then," she sighed trying to lighten the mood with faux exasperation, "I will have to save us, as usual."

Mordistair gave a half-hearted smile, distracted, mulling over how he could possibly obtain their release, diplomatically or otherwise. With growing unease, he anxiously evaluated the nearly assured consequences that would arise should the Jarl make attempts to ransom them, a very likely scenario the knight decided to keep hidden from his charge, unable to explain the inherent dangers of such an arrangement.

Finally succumbing to exhaustion, Gwynayne gave a weary sigh, wriggling deeper into the folds of the knight's soiled sleeve as she tried to settle herself as comfortably as possible against the strain of the ropes.

Mordistair watched as the guards were relieved, eagerly trotting to the fires to collect what scraps of dinner and mead they could manage. Many of the rebels had already returned to their tents, or merely wrapped themselves in cloaks as they slept by the fires.

The throbbing in his leg had finally quieted to a dull pulsing ache and he felt the blood that coated his calf begin to dry against his boot, the blood becoming thick and tacky, aided by the frigid night air. He worried how the wound would impair his ability to fight or flee, should his attempts at diplomacy fail, as he feared they would. He longed to inspect the wound, or at least apply weight to his leg in order to better gauge how compromised he had become, desperate for any information that could better aid his formulating plans.

Despite his desire to deliberate over his machinations for escape, the weary Rose Knight was unable to fight off his exhaustion any longer, his eyes continuously fluttering shut against his will. Lured by the soft, breathy, sighs of his now sleeping charge, he laid his head atop his lady's, attempting to shuffle closer to her side in the hopes of keeping her warm.

With a last glance to the moons overhead, the knight closed his eyes, falling asleep cloaked in pale frost.


	4. Chapter Four - A Withered Rose

Hello again! This chapter was written surprisingly quickly, even though it is far longer than any previous chapter. I hope everyone enjoys it, as it finally contains a touch of action. Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and faves, as always! Please feel free to point out any mistakes so that I can make the story better for everyone. Now that school has come to a close, I hope to have new chapters every few days. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Four

A Withered Rose

Gwynayne stared, mesmerized in disbelief. Her pulse raced as she held her breath, unable to comprehend what she saw. Her life had been one of seclusion until this point. Separated from the world beyond the stone walls of her father's court had sheltered her from such displays of brutality, this apparent ease with which human life was so quickly severed, so disregarded. Though she had heard stories and seen tapestries depicting the mighty battles of kings and ages past, she had only ever witnessed Mordistair and his fellow Rose Knights sparing, mere practice to upkeep their skills. Rarely did they wound each other beyond mere scratches or slight cuts.

She couldn't hear herself gagging on her own breath as the blood rushed through her head, now dizzy and somehow feeling unconnected to her own body. She could only stare as one of the Stormcloak soldiers crumpled to the forest floor, his skull crushed and slit from temple to jaw. Ragged shards of bone jutted from soft pockets of muscle, the blood only just beginning to slither down his nose and cheek. His eyes stared dully ahead, their gaze never leaving her own. Suddenly, a fellow rebel tripped over the fresh corpse, trying to fend off an attacking Imperial. He reached out to steady his fall with his free hand, gripping the remains of the fallen soldier's face. His finger dug into the pink flesh and scraped against the bone. Unfazed, he raised his sword again to block an Imperial blow, digging deeper into the now crushed skull as he pushed himself off the ground to attack. His hand was dripping with blood. Pale lumps of milky flesh and small splinters of bone clung to his fingers, slowly sliding down the slick trails of blood. He pushed the Imperial back, with little concern for his fallen companion, or the flesh that clung to him. With a barbaric cry, the rebel parried and thrust his blade into the Imperial's throat, just above the collarbone. With an upward wrench that snapped the soldier's head back, he freed his blade and turn to drive further into the thrall, his sights already set on the nearest Imperial. He did not stay to watch as his victim slumped to the ground, now ungracefully poised against a decaying stump.

The rebel had only taken a few quick steps before an arrow pierced his side. Before he could react, another rushed to his leg and he cried out from shock and pain. Clutching his thigh and side, the Stormcloak fell to his knees. An Imperial emerged from behind a nearby tree, rushed behind the fallen Nord and drove a war axe into the back of his skull. Strands of pale blonde hair slid across the blue sash and to the ground in a tight curl.

The sudden rush of the clatter of wood and steel, the thick, sharp smell of blood, crisp as rust and iron overcame Gwynayne with violent, sudden clarity. The agonizing, beastly war cries rebounded through the trees and she felt them shudder through her body.

"GWYNAYNE!"

Slowly she turned her head, not entirely sure she had heard a voice, for a moment her name sounded foreign, not her own.

"Lady Gwynayne!"

Mordistair was frantically screaming her name, and had been doing so since she witnessed the first body fall.

The last of the faint mist that had seemed to shield her senses from the ongoing slaughter finally dissipated. Slowly becoming further aware of her surroundings, she began to heave and gasp as she twisted her head from side to side, catching glimpses of rendered limps and fallen corpses, final blows and death moans. She pushed against her binds, clawing at the ground with her feet hysterically, like a freshly trapped animal. She began to cry out between strangled breaths as she struggled, unable to budge, only capable of scrapping her body against the rough bark of the pine.

"Lady Gwynayne, stop!" Mordistair cried out, his face twisted in terror over his charge's growing instability. She continued to scrape against the ground, hyperventilating and violently thrusting again and again the ropes to free herself, crying out as she failed.

"GWYNAYNE STOP!" he screamed again, straining against his own binds to reach her.

She turned to stare at him, her dark eyes wide with absolute horror. She seemed to finally recognize his voice.

"Do not watch, just look at me," he hurriedly ordered, afraid to lose her once again, "Just…" he paused, unable to continue.

With quick, frantic glances he watched the sprawling battle that surrounded them. Most of the Imperials had fought their way to the clearing now, destroying the few Stormcloak tents and tossing over the now cool fire pits in their struggle. His fluttering glances came across the Jarl, adeptly fighting a small, but growing group of Imperials that began to push him into the tree line. His eyes were wild and his lips curled back in animalistic pleasure as he struck down his opponents, his bear cloak now stained and matted with human blood.

The sound of scraping metal and shuffling footfalls began to near as Mordistair watched the Jarl's escalating battle at the far side of the clearing. Snapping his head around, he strained to discern the nearing combatants, struggling against his binds as his charge had, desperate to free himself. Within moments a Stormcloak and Imperial burst from behind the tree they were bound to, circling round the trunk, now a mere few feet away as they continued to deflect each other's' blows. The soldiers pushed against each other with their shields, readying the swords at their sides, stealing a few quick breaths as they steadied themselves.

As quickly as they had appeared, the fight was over. The Stormcloak struck with deadly precision, shoving a blow aside with his shield then swinging his own blade cleanly across the Imperial's neck. Blood immediately spurted into the air in fine streams and a soft spray, coating the rebel's face and further soling the edge of Gwynayne's dress and boots. The Imperial's head dangled from a small piece of flesh, almost completely severed, and with a sway the body fell. The head bounced as it landed then rolled next the shoulder, pulling at the bit of flesh and skin that connected it to the soldier's neck.

Staring, Gwynayne began to scream. She pushed against the tree, as if trying to escape the body, shrieking at the top of her voice. As the head finally settled, her shrieks were overcome with sobs and she began to cry.

Mordistair stared at the fallen Imperial, a young woman who looked no older than himself. Slowly, wide eyed and barely breathing, he stared at the Nordic rebel.

He was catching his breath, and he too stared at the body. Mordistair could see no emotion on his face. He turned to face the young knight, his face smothered in blood, sweat, and strands of his hay colored hair. With a look to the crying Gwynayne, still trying to frantically squirm away from the body, he raised his sword.

The sudden movement snapped Mordistair from his momentary daze. He lunged futilely against the ropes, trying with all his strength to place himself in front of his charge, his teeth grit and his eyes wild as he stared down the Stormcloak.

The rebel walked to the far side of the tree and knelt inches from the knight's side. With a quick strike, he cut through the ropes and tossed them aside.

Mordistair stared at the rebel, recognition dawning on him as the man wearily pushed his hair aside and wiped the blood from his face. The eloquent Stormcloak who had taken his ebony blade the night before crouched beside the knight, reaching for the binds around his wrists without a word.

"Why are you doing this?" Mordistair asked, incredulous.

Gwynayne began to kick the fallen ropes from her lap, eager to be free of them, crying out with each shove as she continued to sob.

"The Imperials will finish with us soon, lad," the rebel tiredly cautioned, "You and your lady should flee with all haste."

Grunting, Mordistair wrenched his now freed arms apart, and the loose ropes fell from his wrists.

"Make for the border to the south, to Cyrodiil. I do not know why you travel our lands, but Skyrim is no place for visitors now."

The soldier finished cutting through the ropes that bound Mordistair's legs and moved toward Gwynayne, quietly weeping as she lay curled in the nook of the pine's roots, her face buried deep into the long ago dead and fallen leaves.

She cringed as the rebel reached out for her wrists and tried to scoot further into the roots to escape his grip. He paused only for a moment, staring sadly at the frightened girl, then quickly slid his blade against the ropes. Hands and legs now free, Gywnayne scuttled across the roots to Mordistair's side, pressing against him and reaching for his arm as she turned to bury her face in his sleeve, shoulders shaking as she continued to cry.

Mordistair immediately reached for his charge, holding her close and smoothing her hair to comfort her. She violently quivered, her hands desperately reaching for the folds of his tunic, as if she could never be close enough, held tight enough.

"Your blade is in my Jarl's tent."

Mordistair glanced up to the risen Stormcloak, who seemed to be growing ever more tired. It wasn't until the Nord cringed and grabbed his side that the knight noticed the trail of blood staining his blue cloak and dirty trousers. With a final nod, the rebel repeated his warning. "Do not stay in Skyrim."

Mordistair watched the rebel rejoin his comrades in the battle, disappearing quickly amidst the frost covered pines.

Gwynayne began to hiccup, making small inaudible sounds and moans as she buried her face deeper into Mordistair's side, trying to escape the escalating screams and battle cries.

Quickly rubbing her back, Mordistair drew them both to their feet. They swayed as they regained feeling in their limbs and he leaned against the tree as he gained his bearings.

The majority of the fight had returned to the forest, even the Jarl had disappeared from the far side of the clearing. Only a handful of men remained on the fringes of the tree line, and a single pair struggled near a fire pit, kicking up burned wood chips and logs in their wake.

Eyeing the large tent on the opposite side of the clearing, Mordistair patted Gwynayne's back and began to lead her forward, still holding her close to his side and shielding her vision as they passed bodies and limbs. She had begun to settle and her grip lessened as she silently followed her knight's direction. They slowly curled their way around the edge of the clearing, Mordistair scanning the clearing with constant vigilance, should a brawl draw near.

"Careful," he cautioned, trying to gingerly sidestep the trail of entrails that littered their path. With a heave, he hoisted Gwynayne from the ground and quickly passed the dismembered body, setting her down only after he had cleared the remains.

His leg was beginning to burn and ache from the strain, and he could feel fresh blood begin to pulse past the dried crust that had formed over his wound. He quickened his pace, fearing a confrontation with any of the combatants should he linger.

Coming to the edge of the tent, Mordistair tenderly pried his charge from his side. The weathered fabric sagged on the beams it had been stretched across, flapping in the cool morning breeze. One side had completely sunken in, collapsed on itself and shredded, another victim from one of the many clashes. Appearing unstable, ready to collapse from even the slightest disturbance, he drew Gwynayne aside and clasped her hands, bringing her to her knees as he crouched outside the tent.

"I'll be right inside, my lady. Don't move, I shall only be a moment."

Before he could even begin to straighten, his young charge held firm to his arm and leapt to his side, shaking her head as her eyes began to well with fresh tears, wide with fear.

"No…no, don't leave me. Please, please…don't leave me," she began to frantically babble.

Sighing, the knight nodded and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, lifting the back tent flap as he drew them inside. There were few belongings within the tent, the only table had been flipped onto its side, the map and regiment markers scattered. He quickly knelt to grab the map and shoved it under his breastplate, their own map lost on one of the long since frightened off ponies.

It took only a moment to locate his ebony blade resting next to an overturned bedroll in the corner of the tent. He drew the blade from its sheath to check its condition, and with a satisfied sigh, slid his sword through his belt, back into its proper place at his side.

"Please," Gwynayne softly whispered, no longer crying, but still shaking, "please Mordistair, can we leave? Please?"

The Rose Knight had never seen his charge so utterly defeated. Though her grip was strong against his shirt sleeve, her arms were limp and her shoulders hunched. Her hair was beyond taming with any brush and thoroughly knotted, lined with dead leaves and covered in dirt and traces of blood. Her wrists and legs bore thick, red welts from the ropes and small scratches and bruises covered her limbs from scraping and struggling against the tree bark. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks and neck covered in sticky tear trails and loose strands of hair. Her dress hung askew, torn, wrinkled and no longer crisp white, but covered in grime and mud. The hemline was stained crimson with drying blood and all of the ribbons were frayed and undone, hanging sadly at her side. Lace trim trailed on the ground behind her, only a few threads holding fast. She continuously shook and shivered, whether from fear or the bitter morning cold, Mordistair did not know.

She sniffled and stared forlornly at the ground in front of her. She appeared in a daze, slipping further into her own thoughts. Mordistair could only imagine what images, what sounds, what smells her mind was repeating for her in surely perfect, gruesome detail.

Tightening his belt with a last tug, he tenderly loosened her hands from his sleeve and held them in his own.

"This very moment," he answered, bending down to look her in the eye, trying to smile for her. She noticed, but gave no response, only turning her eyes away and biting her lip, slipping further into the recesses of her own mind.

* * *

He was beginning to limp.

The fresh blood that flowed from his calf was seeping through the sole of his boot, circling his ankle and slipping through his toes as it stained the ground. He struggled to refrain from favoring his other leg, unwilling to show the extent of the damage Gwynayne had caused.

They had fled the clearing without a second glance, and were now pushing through the frozen undergrowth of the forest. Gwynayne trailed behind the knight, holding onto his outstretched hand. She stared only at his ornate armor, losing herself in the silver flourishes and crimson petals. With every Nordic scream and Imperial cry she rushed forward, hovering only just behind the knight and stared intently at a single rose, lips trembling and eyes welling with fear as she circled the concentric petals.

"Careful, my lady, the growth is thick here."

Gwynayne only nodded, her eyes never straying, and stumbled on.

Mordistair stopped and looked to the sky, catching his breath as he rested his leg. The dawn's rays had finally touched the forest floor, and the bright pinks and yellow of the morn were beginning to settle to cold, faint blue. Though he saw no bodies, neither alive nor dead, the sounds of battle were not far off, he could only guess how widespread the fighting had become, how deep into the forest the soldiers had been pushed. It was becoming harder to focus, the thudding pulse of blood trickling from his leg was consuming his attention. He turned about, trying to quickly determine what path best to take, which direction would lead them out of the slaughter they had escaped.

A sudden twang of striking metal reverberated through the trees, and Mordistair spun, trying to determine its origins, cringing as he pulled on his leg. Gwynayne reflexively shrunk to his side, whimpering and gazing wildly about, as if an entire swarm were about to fall upon them. In quick succession sword and sword clashed again, followed by yelps and grunts. The combatants were drawing near.

Needing no further provocation, Mordistair tightened his grip on his lady's hand and plunged further into the forest, frantically weaving through trees and growth as best he could as his leg grew heavier with pain. Within moments, the shouting escalated. The sounds of barraging shields and clashing swords quickly grew louder, suddenly surrounding the pair. The two spun anxiously, fearing to see an onslaught of soldiers at any moment. It was Gwynayne who caught the first glimpse of red horsehair and leather plate through the trees, crying out. A small collection of Imperials were giving chase to a single Stormcloak on the steep hill above them. They moved quickly, overcoming the rebel with ease.

As one of the Imperials wrenched a great sword from the fallen Nord, another pointed to the Rose Knight, his ebony armor easily seen in the frost covered woods. Wasting no time, one of the soldiers quickly notched an arrow and fired as the others descended the hill. Mordistair wrapped his arms around his small charge and pulled her to the ground, shielding her with his body as the arrow brushed past. Adrenaline now souring through his veins, he flung himself and his charge behind the nearest tree.

He held her close, his hands wrapped around her neck and back. Biting his lip, he took only a moment to stare at his leg and the small trail of blood that he had been leaving in his wake, faint, but ultimately noticeable. He could hear the soldiers nearing the base of the hill now, their shuffling leather armor and clanking metal studs easily distinguishable. Gritting his teeth, he held his charge close for one last moment, then released his hold, lifting her head in cupped hands.

"My lady, there is no time to argue. I will stay to hold them off. Run," he commanded, "run and don't stop!"

"No…no, Mordistair, I – " she shook her head feverishly, "No! No!"

He hoisted her to her feet as she began to cry, gripping her shoulder tightly and cradling the side of her head in his palm.

"Fly as fast you can, I won't be far behind!" he lied, and with a sudden thrust, he spun her about and pushed her ahead, "Now go!"

She took a hesitant step and turned to watch her knight lean against the tree, clutching his leg, his face contorted in pain, blood flowing freely to the frozen ground.

She shook her head again, her tears now spilling over. "No, Mordistair – "

"Go!" He screamed, his eyes desperate and pleading.

She paused, staring at the Rose Knight and shaking her head, ignoring the sounds of the Imperials growing ever closer.

"GO!" he finally bellowed, voice raw, gripping the tree for support. He held her gaze as she continued to stare, unmoving. With weaning strength he sighed.

"Go."

And she fled.

* * *

The knight could only spare a moment to watch his charge flee into the trees. With a small smile, he saw the last flutter of her once white dress disappear behind a thick, sprawling bramble patch and he straightened against the tree trunk, groaning as he placed weight back onto his leg. He could hear the first of the soldiers only a few paces from where he hid, and he quickly took a handful of focused breaths, clenching his fingers in anticipation. The Imperials would not pass.

A twig snapped underfoot as an Imperial neared the tree. In one tight, fluid motion, the Rose Knight drew his ebony blade from his side and swung his body round the tree, sword aloft and high. It dragged through the first Imperial's throat, sending a thin stream of blood down the shaft, shining against the polished steel. The soldier dropped, his partially severed head sagging to one side. Ducking beneath the eager thrust of the soldier's companion, Mordistair drew forth the dagger from his boot, ignoring the slick blood that coated the handle, and swung his blade again, flicking his wrist as he slashed the backs of the soldier's thighs. The soldier immediately succumbed to his wounds and crumpled to the forest floor, gripping the backs of his legs as he writhed. Though his honor called to end the soldier's suffering, the knight had little time, and he continued off towards the base of the hill to meet the last of the soldiers. He came to a halt as the soldiers circled round him, now aware of his capabilities, they paced waiting to strike, rather than run forth, plunging to their deaths as their companions had. He held his blade aside and his dagger hovered in front of his face, his fingers circling tightly around the hilt as he altered his grip. He turned slowly to face his aggressors, trying to discern the strongest and weakest of the group before him.

One of the Imperials noticed the blood trailing on the ground surrounding the ebony clad warrior, seeping from some hidden wound under his boot. Without hesitation, the soldier hoisted his battle axe to strike when the knight's back was turned. Almost instantaneously, the boy circled, evading the sweeping lunge of the axe and spun to bring his blade down on the soldier's exposed arm. With no mail or even simple cloth to impair the cut, the ebony blade slid cleanly through the bone and muscle, and the arm dropped to the ground, the fingers still gripping to the axe handle for a moment before finally relinquishing their hold. The soldier's screams were muffled as Mordistair thrust his dagger into the soldier's throat, digging quickly, but deeply into the base of his skull. Without pause, he wrenched the dagger free and spun to face his remaining opponents, struggling to steady his breath and ignore the now agonizing, throbbing, pumping blood in his calf.

The remaining soldiers quickly shared a glance and then they were upon him. Mordistair groaned as he struggled to hold back the downward thrust of one soldier's swords with his dagger, then swung with his blade to collide with the mace of another. Pushing against the mace wielding soldier, he avoided the attack of the third, and managed to whip his blade across the attacker's upper arm, sliding off the leather plating on his chest. As the soldier fell back, gripping the fresh wound on his arm, Mordistair cried out in agony. The mace ripped through the flesh along his lower back, five deep, tearing cuts pulling at his skin. With a roar, he turned and circled round the soldier, raising his dagger again to fend off the attack of the sword bearer. With a quick parry as the mace sought to wound him again, he shoved it aside with his blade and sunk the metal deep into the chest of the Imperial.

Suddenly the formerly wounded soldier struck at Mordistair's arm with his sword. He could only just stumble back from the sweeping cut, and the blade merely sliced skin. Cringing as he bore weight upon his wounded leg, he swayed and the soldier stole the moment to land another successful blow at the knight. A deep cut slid through the previous flesh wound, from the edge of his breast plate to his elbow, and he cried out, stumbling further back along the base of the hill. His arm, and the dagger it held, hung limp at his side as he struggled to stay upright. As one of the soldiers lunged again, he managed to sidestep the thrust and sloppily pushed his blade into the soldier's thigh, just above the knee, trying in vain to strike anything not covered with leather or mail. With a howl, the soldier fell back, awkwardly stumbling as he brushed against a tree trunk. Gritting his teeth, Mordistair ignored the flaring pain in his arm and flung his dagger toward the tree, unable to waste even a moment to see if it struck true as he quickly turned to hold off the final attacks of the last Imperial.

Within moments it was over. Gasping for breath and doubled over, Mordistair weakly pried his blade from the soldier's side. Stumbling, ignoring the sweat that trickled down his cheek and temple, he made his way to the closest tree, an Imperial slumped across its roots, an ebony dagger embedded deep within his eye socket. Mordistair winced, from both pain and disgust as he wiggled the dagger free, grimacing as the majority of the eyeball clung to the blade, slowly creeping down the steel as it succumbed to gravity. With a quick flick of his wrist, he flung the remaining milky residue from the dagger and turned to sheath his blade when a sudden pain blossomed at his side.

Choking on his breath, Mordistair fell against the tree as he saw the arrow. It had pierced his torso just below the ribcage, partially passing through, the arrowhead and part of the shaft poking through his lower back.

"The archer…" he weakly murmured with realization as he slowly slid down the rough sap covered bark of the pine.

With a glance, he looked to the top of the hill. Now in plain sight he saw the Imperial notch another arrow and draw. Mordistair had only enough strength to close his eyes and lean his head back against the tree.

The archer would not give chase, would not waste precious time on his charge, now hopefully hidden deep within the woods, but would rejoin his regiment to finish off the Stormcloaks. Mordistair refused to believe otherwise and sighed, content, ready for death.


	5. Chapter Five - Sputtering Sparks

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, for some reason it didn't come together as well as I would have hoped. But let me know what you think by leaving a review with your own thoughts! I only hope to improve, so any constructive criticism would be wonderful! Regardless, I hope you enjoy. (On a side note: between posting this chapter and the next I will be reviewing the previous chapters and attempt to fix any grammatical errors or otherwise awkward phrasing.)

* * *

Chapter Five

Sputtering Sparks

_"__I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"_

_With each proclamation, she beat her small fists against his ebony armor, struggling in his grasp. Her bare feet scraped across the worn wood floor as she pushed against his arms, continuing to thrash about and tussle. She reached for his cravat with clawed fingers and a matching snarl only to have the knight calmly force her arms to her sides. She immediately began to squirm, angry tears pouring down her cheeks, pooling at her trembling bottom lip. Saying nothing, he spun her about and wrapped his arms about her waist, making sure to keep her struggling arms pinned. As he lifted her in the air she began to fiercely kick at his shins, straining her neck to face the knight and overcome his grip._

_"__Stop it!" she shrieked, thrashing from side to side, "Let me go! You can't do this!"_

Mordistair held her tight, and she buried her face against his neck. She could feel his pulse racing beneath the cravat, nearly as fast as her own. He brushed his thumb against the base of her neck and pressed his cheek against the crown of her head.

_The knight took a moment to brace and steady himself, his willful charge was utilizing all her strength, continuously striking his thighs and shins, straining her back to pop from his grasp. She cried and grunted in frustration as she began to beat the back of her head against his chest. _

_"__You're evil! YOU'RE EVIL!" she screeched, twisting from side to side, trying to slip her arms from the knight's firm hold._

_Her guardian was silent as he maneuvered around the simple wooden furnishing of the small cottage, sidestepping the thick braided rug and accompanying rocking chair. Books of all kinds, from advanced spellbooks to old historical tomes littered the floor, some in piles, others left wide open. He calmly pushed them aside as he continued, taking care not to shift the pages. _

_Hearthfire's evening light flowed through the windows in soft, honey golden streams. The plain ceramic table ware shone in the warm light, waiting expectantly for the evening meal. Tender shadows danced on the wooden floor as a breeze rustled the flowers growing outside, trellising up the window frames. Simple tapestries and rustic paintings were hung about the walls in a quaint, happenstance fashion. Handmade quilts and cushions lined the chairs, soft candles flickered on the sills, and herbs hung from the rafters. A perfume of drying flowers, old wood, and bubbling stew filled the cottage. Though thoroughly planned and constructed by the most accomplished craftsmen, it was the very embodiment of picturesque charm and idyllic country comfort._

_"__You traitor! LET ME GO!"_

_Gwynayne kicked out in protest, sending a side table toppling. Fresh sunflowers flew to the ground, their vase crashing to the floor soon after. _

_"__How dare you!" she cried out, "You disobedient, awful, insubordinate, vile…WRETCH!"_

_Mordistair huffed as he adjusted his grip around her waist, shifting her weight as he began to climb the stairs. Gwynayne reached out to grip the banister with her toes, trying in vain to wrap her ankles around the ornately carved beam. As her feet merely slipped from the polished wood she bawled in defeat and began to hang limply in her knight's arms, her strength exhausted._

The knight tenderly lifted her head to meet his, caressing her jaw as he implored her to run, to leave him behind.

_"__I hate you," she feebly moaned, letting her head rest against his breastplate. Her voice was no longer venomous, rather, she stated it as a fact, undeniable. _

_The knight only continued down the hall, shuffling past piles of laundry, shoes, and trails of simple craft supplies. He grunted, shifting Gwynayne in his arms, hesitating as he loosened his hold to open the bedroom door. But she remained still, head limp, arms and legs lifelessly dangling. _

She refused, shaking her head vehemently. Mordistair pulled her to her feet and cradled her cheek in his palm. He promised to follow, smiled, as if everything was so simple, so certain. She could hear the approaching footfalls and shuffles of the Imperials as they neared the base of hill and he spun her about, prodding her forward.

_Mordistair felt resistance as he tried to open the door. He leaned his shoulder against the wood panels, pulling Gwynayne to his side, resting her on his hip. As he rammed his body against the door again, he slowly managed to push it aside. Blankets and undergarments were caught up underneath the rail, and he heard a pile of books topple to the ground as he gave a final shove. With a sigh, he squeezed through the opening, quickly hopping into the room as the door swung closed behind him, succumbing to the weight of more falling books. _

_He set his charge to the floor, gently unwrapping his arms as he stepped back. He watched for a moment, readying himself should she attempt another attack, but she only stared at the floor, her shoulders sagging and her head downcast. _

She stumbled forward, immediately spinning to face the cringing knight, doubled over to clutch his leg. Her tears hastened, spilling down her cheeks and she called out to him, refusing to abandon him.

_"__I do not – "_

_"__Do not speak to me," Gwynayne spat, turning her head aside, showing lips curled in disgust._

_Her long tresses shielded her face, hiding the tears that fell freely to the floor._

_"__My lady, this is – "_

"Go!" he screamed to her, his eyes wrought with fear and worry. He sensed her stubborn apprehension, and his face fell as she again shook her head, again ignoring his pleas.

_"__Go away!" she screamed, spinning on her heels to face him, "Don't ever speak to me again! I don't want you in my presence, EVER! I LOATHE YOU!"_

_Her chest heaved as she bawled between her harsh screams. Her teeth were grit and her fists balled at her side as she stared down the knight._

Again, bellowing with terrified rage, he commanded her leave, to flee.

_He had lowered his eyes, his face bore no expression but a quiet withdrawal. For a moment he did nothing, only stared coldly at the floor before him, his thoughts distant. His lips quivered as if about to speak, but he simply bowed his head and slipped from the room, quietly shutting the door behind him._

_Her raging anger not yet satisfied, having felt no opposition from the silent knight, she rushed toward the door and screamed as loud as her voice could manage. _

_"__I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!" _

_For a moment, his footsteps stopped. Gwynayne's tears welled anew, and she began to sob and gasp, her vile emotions still not satisfied. _

_After short pause, she could hear him continue to make his way down the corridor, and the sound of his steps disappeared as he descended the stairs._

Mordistair looked to her with pleading eyes. He gripped the rough bark of the pine, still clutching his leg, struggling not to reveal the extent of the pain he felt. With a slow sigh, soft and desperate, he begged for the last time.

"Go."

Her vision was clouded, her eyes blurred with spilling tears, but she thought he smiled, his last attempt of assurance that all would be well.

She turned and ran.

She tried to keep her mind clear, to focus purely on the forest before her, to seek a path of little resistance between the thick bramble patches and rocky terrain. But the memories would not be denied. They scrambled for prominence, every fight, every scream, every struggle, every cruel joke, every harsh word pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. She found it hard to breathe as ran through the trees sobbing.

_"__I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!" _

She cringed, shaking her head from side to side, pumping her arms as she ran, flying across the forest floor, trying to outpace even her memories.

* * *

The pines were beginning to blend together, none of them distinguishable from the next. They towered in their frost cloaks above the small Breton, seeming to draw closer as she spun about the forest floor, turning her head frantically, eyes darting as she sought a path. The hills had become steeper, lined with jutting rocks and covered in slippery frost. The foliage was thick and tangled upon itself, spilling over fallen logs and stumps rotting with mora tapinella.

With hesitant steps, she backed away, timidly glancing from side to side. Though she could no longer hear the cries of war, she feared a bloodthirsty soldier or rebel around every turn, and for a moment she simply shuffled her feet, uncertain and afraid.

A lone sparrow chirped overhead, hidden in the bushy boughs of a towering pine. She snapped her head upward, eager to find the creature. With a quick flick of its tail feathers, it launched from the tree and spiraled through the forest, easily twisting around trees and ducking under branches laden with old snow. Naively, she immediately trailed after the bird, hopping over decaying logs and pushing her way past a clump of prickly thistles. She was ready to cling to any guidance, even that shown by a simple songbird, and blindly followed it through the wood, believing it could only lead her to safety.

She stumbled, her foot catching on one of her sagging boots, already coming apart at the seams and the tattered ribbons trailing behind her. The intricate lace of her dress would catch and cling to nearly any bramble she brushed against, but still she pushed forward, straining to keep the sparrow in her sights.

It was not long till she began to recognize certain trees, certain boulders, and with growing trepidation, she began to slow. Glancing worriedly about her surroundings she caught sight of a fallen body, its limbs bent and pulled unnaturally to one side, a trail of blood smeared across the ground. With a small cry, she fell back against a pine, jumping with fright as she felt its rough bark. Whimpering she pushed around it, scrambling to flee the body. She began to run, sliding on the frost covered boulders. She raised her arms to shield her face as she pushed through low hanging branches, an immediate rush of sappy pine clouding her sense of smell.

And then she came upon them.

She came to a halt as she stared with horror at the mass of Imperials before her. They surrounded a pair of Stormcloaks, blood drenched Nords fighting desperately to hold the soldiers at bay. Just beyond them was the clearing, desecrated with the dead and dying. For all her wandering, she had arrived back to the source of all her struggles.

One of the rebels managed to push through the Imperial ranks, stumbling from the circle and toward the tree line. Now cowering against the closest tree, Gwynayne recognized the wounded Nord. Mordistair had seemed familiar with the man when he'd cut their bonds.

His face was pasty and pale, covered in sweat and streaks of drying blood. He sagged to one side, weakly holding his sword in front of him. He drew deep and ragged breaths, ready to collapse. An Imperial quickly followed as he fell back, tripping on his lagging feet against one of the pines. With a weak grunt, he raised his bloody sword, trying to block the downward swing of the Imperial, eager to finish with the weakening rebel.

The Imperial knocked the sword from the Nord's grasp and it toppled into the clearing, carving a path through the tall grass. His legs buckled and he slid down the trunk of the tree, staring up at the soldier as he accepted his fate. With a harsh cry, the Imperial raised his sword.

"N-no!"

Gwynayne raised her hands instinctively. With a sputtering fizzle and snap, an arc of lightning, wild and reaching, coursed from her hands, the electric tendrils plunging deep into the Imperial's body. He seized as the lighting circled his body, caressing him in violet sparks. His sword dropped to the ground as his hand twisted and pulsed. His head was pulled back and he gagged.

It was only a moment, but upon seeing the terror of her spell, Gwynayne dropped her hands, falling to her knees. She wrapped her arms about herself, as if it would stop the lightning from wracking the soldier's body. She could only watch in terror.

Before the spell could dissipate the Stormcloak jumped to his feet and rammed his shoulder against the incapacitated Imperial, tossing him to the ground without resistance. He charged into the clearing and recovered his blade, turning to face his opponent with renewed strength.

The magical display had not gone unnoticed by the remaining Imperials, still at odds with the last Stormcloak. Two broke from the group and charged the girl, still trembling on the forest floor. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the clearing.

Her short strides were quickly overcome by the charging soldiers, and in a desperate attempt to dodge their attack she leapt into the glade, falling in a heap at the base of a tree. She curled into a ball, wrapping her hands around her head, the only armor she had at her disposal, sobbing, crying out as she heard their nearing footsteps.

The Nord wasted no time in rushing toward the Imperials, only just managing to halt their assault on the terrified girl. With a roar, he thrust his sword toward the nearest soldier, taking care not to step on Gwynayne, still curled up in the roots of the tree. He quickly placed himself between her and the Imperials, blocking a soldier's staggering blow with his gauntlet as he held off the thrust of the other with his sword. The blade dug deep into the leather and cut through his flesh. He jerked his arm back as he cried out, but continued to parry with his remaining strength.

Gwynayne peeked through her fingers, confused as to why she was untouched. She shrieked upon seeing the Nord, almost on top of her, fighting off the Imperial soldiers. Scrambling up the trunk of the tree, scraping her hands on the rough bark, she watched, breathless with fear as the Nord was quickly succumbing to his fresh wounds.

Suddenly, a beastly roar erupted from the fight in the forest, and a handful of Imperials fell to the ground. The bearish Jarl revealed himself and cried out with furious ecstasy as he charged from the circle of soldiers. He was drenched in blood, and from the way he proclaimed his victory, displayed his barbaric zeal, it was clearly not his own. He barred his teeth as his lips curled back in a twisted smile, whipping his war axe into the skull of a charging Imperial, sending the now dead boy careening to the ground. He backed toward the edge of the clearing, laughing, a sword raised as he adjusted his grip on the axe.

"Our path to Sovngarde will be lined with the corpses of Imperials, brother!" he cried out to the rebel, laughing as he readied his weapons, digging his feet deep into the blood softened earth.

* * *

It was a display he would not soon forget. The ebony clad warrior nearly danced as he spun about the Imperials, so bumbling and incompetent by comparison. The wound on his leg seemed to have little effect on his ability. With a cringe, he watched as the warrior plunged his dagger through the throat, up into the skull of one of the soldiers, withdrawing with a flourish, emotionless save for the fierce determination in his eyes.

He settled into a more comfortable position on the branch, eager to see how long the elegant fighter would last against so many opponents. He had never been adept at discerning the races of those he came across, but the boy was clearly no Nord. His moves were tight and controlled, his attacks precise and studied, almost romantic with subtle flourish.

Finally, the warrior was struck, a bloom of fresh blood stained his sleeve and he stumbled in pain. He was finally beginning to weaken. But he carried on, striking at the soldiers, bringing another down with a thrown dagger to the eye, so certain in his ability he needn't even confirm his mark.

He chuckled at such an audacious display of skill. He shifted in his perch, twiddling an arrow in his fingers, shaking his head with glee, amused as the final soldier succumbed to the superior skills of the warrior.

Quickly tiring, the boy trudged to one of the fallen Imperials, pulling his dagger from the body, straightening with obvious pain. Suddenly, an arrow shot through his side and he fell against the tree, his strength sapped.

Just as startled as the weakening warrior, the observer's eyes darted to the source of the arrow. An Imperial archer poised on a nearby hill reached for another arrow, clearly displeased at his poor first shot.

"Now that doesn't seem very fair," he laughed, and quickly strung his own bow.

In a moment, the soldier was in his sights. With a low breath, he smiled and let his arrow fly.

* * *

The Nord had managed to fell one of the soldiers, but even the ferocity of his resolve could not stay his ebbing strength, and he succumbed to blows of the second, eager to revenge his companion and finish with the rebel. Paralyzed with fear, Gwynayne clutched the base of the tree, fearing her own death was only moments away as the Imperial turned to face her. But as he raised his sword his head bobbed and shuddered, then slumped against his shoulder. An axe handle jutted from the back of his skull, the head burrowed deep within, hidden almost entirely from view. The Jarl emerged around the side of the tree, grunting with pleasure as he ripped his weapon from the crumpled soldier.

He rose to his full height. His hulking shadow easily eclipsed her small, trembling body, and she stared up in horror, fearing she'd only traded one attacker for another. But the Jarl merely turned and gazed about the clearing, the wild and brutal gleam in his eye now sullen and brooding, wretchedly tamed. Fresh Imperials had made their way to the despoiled glade, emerging quickly from the forest on all sides. Swords aloft and arrows drawn, they quickly surrounded the pair.

She knew not whether to be relieved or terrified. The gruesome fighting, the killing, the screaming, had finally stopped. But her heart raced.

With tear filled eyes she looked to the dead Nord before her, his right forearm severed and a gaping wound now disfiguring the side of his head, his nose collapsed and crushed. With his one remaining eye he stared at her, unblinking, cold and void. With swelling nausea, she blinked back tears and looked aside, trying to steady her breath.

Suddenly, riders on horseback trotted into the clearing, bound in glistening steel armor and gilded leather, pristine and untouched. They slowed as they neared the circle of soldiers, the leader nodding to those on his flanks as he came to stop. A Redguard woman eagerly dismounted, followed by an Imperial, and marched through the ring of soldiers.

With a dark smile, she stopped in front of the Jarl.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," she proclaimed, her voice dripping with pride, "seems you've swung your last axe."

He merely sneered, holding his tongue.

With that, she motioned to a handful of the closest soldiers, and they rushed to subdue and bind both Jarl and Breton.

Ulfric resisted as a soldier wrapped a gag around his mouth. Snorting with hate and looking to the now smirking Redguard with frost cold eyes, he shook off the hands that sought to guide him, and marched, parting the ring of soldiers.

Gwynayne pushed back further into the roots of the pine, crying as she shielded herself with her trembling hands. As the young Imperial woman knelt to grab her arms, she began to weakly resist, curling further into a tight ball.

"No! Please, no!"

She was nearly convulsing now, tears pouring down her cheeks as she pled and sobbed.

"Quiet!" the Imperial ordered, roughly grabbing the girl's wrists, dragging her harshly across the roots as she bound them in thick ropes.

"Get her with the rest of the prisoners!" the Redguard shouted, following a small detachment that broke off to lead the subdued Jarl through the clearing. With the superior prize in hand, she cared little for the cowering girl.

Those who remained on horseback turned and began to ride alongside the procession, the foremost commander's head held aloft with pride and triumph. Gwynayne still struggled against the young Imperial woman as she was hulled to her feet and again she pleaded.

"I'm not one of them! Stop this! Please!"

"I said, quiet!" the woman harshly replied, and shoved the girl forward.

Stumbling, Gwynayne turned to face her, reaching out with bound hands. "I'm not a Stormcloak!" she began to bawl, shaking her head wildly, "I was taken – "

Having heard enough, the Imperial raised her sword and struck the young Breton with the butt of the hilt, propelling her to the ground. With a final whimper, Gwynayne lay still, unable to feel the hands now dragging her limp body across the blood soaked field.


	6. Update

**Update Schedule**

Chapter One - UPDATED (6/28/16)

Chapter Two - UPDATED (7/4/16)

Chapter Three - UPDATED (7/25/16)

Chapter Four - Currently Updating

Chapter Five - Currently Updating

Chapter Six - Currently Writing


End file.
